


RAMPS

by Snooky



Category: Hogan's Heroes (TV 1965)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:21:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 36,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25209136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snooky/pseuds/Snooky
Summary: The newly liberated prisoners from Luft Stalag 13 have one more stop to make before being sent home. A sequel to my (fairly short) 2009 story, "Out the Front Gates."  Cross-posted to fanfiction.net
Comments: 12
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

_R.A.M.P.S_

_Prologue_

February 1945

SOE Headquarters

London, England

Colonel Wembley, the primary control officer assigned to the clandestine operation headquartered in Luft Stalag 13, shuffled the large stack of papers in front of him, and then checked the slide projector on his left. General Butler, the highest-ranking officer working with Colonel Hogan and his men, sat to Wembley's right. Five other men joined them at the large conference table.

"Therefore, I believe it's in the best interest of the prisoners to head to France for the initial debriefing," Wembley stated. "We cannot be sure of their condition when they are liberated. Right now, they are suffering from shortages and illnesses. My recommendation is to send them to Camp Lucky Strike. We have already been in touch with their chief medical officer and the commander. And as I've mentioned, Sir Colin (1) is in agreement with whatever we decide."

"I disagree, Wembley," stated General Wadley, who was seated next to Butler. "Given the intelligence, it is crucial that they be brought to a secure location at once. The Allies will still have agents operating in hostile territory long after Luft Stalag 13 is liberated." He turned to Butler. "These two men at Camp Lucky Strike now know about Papa Bear's operation? This is a terrible breach."

"No, they do not," Butler interjected. "We just went over their facilities and the possibility of separating a large number of men. If we determine they will be sent there, some personnel at the camp will have to be told of the operation. That cannot be helped, and disclosure will be kept to the minimum." Butler leaned forward, cupping his hands in front of him. "We are not just talking about Colonel Hogan and his main team. This is a prisoner of war camp. If the final decision is to bring them all back to England, we will have over 900 men that will need to be flown out of Germany as soon as possible."

"What does Colonel Hogan say?" asked a man representing the Prisoner of War Executive Branch, the agency in charge of arrangements and implementation of plans for the repatriation and care of liberated POWs. (2)

"We had hoped to bring him over for a confidential meeting to discuss end-of-war plans, but that is not possible," Wembley replied. "I do know that he requested that we keep everyone together. Not just the main operatives, but the entire camp."

"Requested?" The speaker, an American major, stood up. "That is not the word I would use to describe his communiqué regarding the issue. Insisted would be a better word." He walked over to a sideboard and poured himself a glass of water. "Isn't that right, Wembley?"

"You do have a point." Wembley smiled. "He is very stubborn, and protective of all the prisoners, not just those living with him in his barracks. However, based on our experience, he will follow orders. Nevertheless, the main control team has decided to not discuss or inform Luft Stalag 13 of any of the liberation plans. We have implemented an intelligence silence on certain matters, and Colonel Hogan understands this. Our main concern is keeping the operation safe and running until the Allies can liberate the camp. Unfortunately, we have no way of knowing when that will be."

"What are your thoughts, Colonel Maddox?" asked Wadley to the American physician assigned to the OSS.

"Well, after listening to everyone's input, I believe it's in the best interest of all of the men at camp to get them away from that environment and processed as soon as possible. Not all the prisoners are American or British subjects. I hate to have to move those from the continent twice. We already have procedures set up for the evacuation and processing of liberated prisoners. You all have copies of the memoranda and reports." He leaned back in his chair. "I recommend sending them to Camp Lucky Strike. Keep them separated from the rest of the liberated prisoners, but let them have the full resources of the facility. It is now being set up to handle thousands of POWs. I can transfer over there when the time comes and oversee the medical care, if necessary. The OSS and General Eisenhower agree with my initial recommendation." (3)

Wadley nodded. "I do want to do what is best for these men. If we can be guaranteed secrecy, keep those in the loop to a minimum and process these men out as soon as possible, I'm willing to send them to Le Havre when the time comes. Comments?"

No one disagreed.

"Thank you, everyone," Wembley stated as he rose from his chair. "We will start working on this immediately; and if I can ask one more thing? Pray that we don't lose anyone before the camp is liberated."

* * *

April 21, 1945

It had only been four days since their liberation; but to Hogan and his staff, it seemed like a lifetime. The company that arrived at the front gates expected to see living skeletons, but to their surprise and relief, they found prisoners already in control of the camp.

As the long line of trucks that began at the motor pool snaked its way through the compound, the rank and file of Luft Stalag 13, sorted by their barracks, waited for their ride out of prison. A medic from the liberating battalion walked over to a group waiting for their assignment. "We're ready for you guys. Load your stuff and then you can get into the truck." The group made good time and were in the truck in less than five minutes.

Colonel Hogan and some of his staff were standing close to the gate. As each truck holding the now-freed prisoners approached the main entrance, it stopped.

Hogan walked over to the vehicle carrying the men from Barracks 12. They tried to scramble to their feet, but he waved them off. "At ease. You were as much a part of this operation as my main team, myself, or any of our underground contacts. I'm proud of every single one of you, and I am proud to serve with you. I'm putting in commendations and promotion requests for every prisoner in this camp."

The men were speechless. Finally, Rogers, the barracks chief, managed a "thank you, sir."

"I'll see you boys in France," Hogan said as he returned their salute. When he spotted Kinch heading his way, he stepped aside. Nodding at his second, Hogan then asked, "more news?"

"Yes, sir. All the guards and prison staff have made it to a secure location in England."

"Good." Hogan stifled a cough. "I'll be sure to pay them a visit after we get back there, go through our debriefing, and anything else they have in store for us."

Kinch stared at another group of prisoners heading their way. "I think that's Barracks 13," he told Hogan. "And then we're breaking for lunch, if that's all right with you, Colonel."

Hogan agreed and then walked over to the next group of men. "Only 300 plus more to get out of here," he mumbled, as he told the waiting soldiers to stand at ease.

The evacuated residents of Barracks 12 left Luft Stalag 13 and eventually caught up with the larger convoy of an assortment of vehicles winding its way around rubble, dead animals, captured Germans, and military vehicles heading in the opposite direction. It took an hour for the convoy to arrive at the captured German airfield.

"You guys from 13?" A corporal carrying a clipboard, yelled over the sound of a C-47 idling on the runway.

"Yes!" Rogers, the barracks chief shouted back.

"We'll unload for you," the corporal said as he approached the group. "We've got wounded filling up this flight. You will have to wait for the next plane. Park yourselves out of the way, and hang onto your paperwork."

"Hey, Rogers." Pasternack pointed to a group of men milling around what appeared to be a first aid tent. "There are the guys from 19."

The new arrivals headed that way and joined their fellow liberated prisoners.

"This is a madhouse." Shepherd, the chief of Barracks 19 offered Rogers a canteen.

"Thanks." Rogers took a long swig. "How long you been waiting?"

"Two flights left without us. I'll tell ya. This brings it a little too close, if you get my drift. It's different in the air. Here, you can see the damage." The two dozen men silently watched as stretchers holding wounded combat troops were loaded onto the plane.

The corporal handling traffic approached them after that flight took off. "Your groups can go on the next flight," he informed the men, who didn't have long to wait. The anticipation of what would happen next made the men nervous, and they chatted constantly throughout the flight. As they approached the runways of the large evacuation center located on the coast of France, they became quiet and then unsure of themselves. The plane remained idling on the runway, as the men exited the aircraft, for as soon as it was clear, it would return to Germany to pick up more wounded, as well as liberated prisoners.

A group of Red Cross workers handing out coffee and doughnuts met the men. While they enjoyed the food and tried not to stare too hard at the women, Rogers went up to a sergeant carrying a clipboard. He was in the process of barking orders in the mayhem that was the tarmac.

"We're more prisoners from 13," Rogers informed the sergeant, as soon as he had a chance to interrupt.

The sergeant glanced over at the two dozen men waiting behind Rogers and then cleared his throat. "Prisoners? Listen up!" He immediately got everyone's attention. "You are ramps now, understand? R! A! M! P! Repatriated Allied Military Personnel! You are no longer POWs! And you are all required to get medical checkups! Follow the line!" He pointed towards a set of buildings on the edge of the runway. "Don't worry about your gear! It's heading over to where you're being billeted!" Resembling a drill sergeant speaking to new recruits, he began walking towards the head of the line. "As soon as you're medically cleared, you will be taken over for interrogations!"

"What interrogations?" Rogers had thought debriefing would start when the staff arrived. "Sergeant, what interrogations?" he repeated.

"I don't make the rules, I just enforce them," was the sergeant's reply.

The 15 men from barracks 12 and the 12 men from Barracks 19 were dumbfounded, but did as they were told. They were kindly but efficiently taken in for thorough checkups and deposited back in another line. They were given a lecture about what they would be fed and how much to eat. The two barracks chiefs, still looking at the bandages where their blood was drawn, were the last ones out and looked around.

"I'm missing two," Rogers told Saunders.

"They took them for x-rays, Sarge."

"Oh." He looked at the nurse who had escorted him out. "How do we find them ma'am?"

"They'll catch up to you. Unless they've been admitted. Someone will let you know."

"What's this interrogation?" Saunders asked the corporal escorting the men over to yet another area.

"It's a formality. Every ramp has to go through it."

"I heard they're checking for German deserters and other people who don't belong here," McNamara, a corporal in Saunders' barracks whispered to another man.

"But we were…"

"That's enough, Bridges." Saunders barked at the man, who was clearly insulted that anyone would think to question his loyalty.

"We're back in the army," another hut mate whispered to another.

Exhausted by the truck ride, the flight, and the medical exams, the men were grateful to be shown to a hanger, where they were to be billeted.

Lovely." Pasternack flopped on a cot. "Thought we were getting tents. So this is where we're quarantined?"

"Temporarily," Anderson, one of Wilson's assistants, told the new arrivals. Meanwhile, other former prisoners were gathering around the newcomers. "They don't want us mingling with prisoners from other camps." He began taking a head count. "We have two missing."

"Pulled out for x-rays," Rogers explained.

"I'll call over. They've admitted about 10 so far." He then pointed to a stack of duffel bags piled up by the wall. "There's a whole load of supplies there for you," Anderson explained. "I heard that some of the kriegies ended up at reception camps first. They got their supplies there." He paused to light a cigarette.

"So what's this place then?"

"Embarkation center," Anderson replied. "We were lucky to skip a step."

Curious, the men opened up the bags, which held extra clothing, toiletries and bedding. They added the items to the supplies they brought with them.

"Some of these guys came in with nothing. And they lost a ton of weight," Anderson said. "I didn't get a chance to talk to any of them, but we've heard a lot of things from the staff. Horrible." He shook his head.

"Where are they?" Rogers asked as he sorted out his supplies.

"Tents. In different sections. I think there are about 200 to 500 men in each area." He chuckled. "Guess what? There's a main street in each section."

"Which we won't see," another man grumbled.

"Hey, it is what it is. We're still classified. And if you see some of these other prisoners, you'll realize how lucky we were," Anderson stated.

"Wait till you see the mess. We're getting served by German POWs," added another man.

"That's something. How's the food? They told us; but is it really that bland?" a corporal from Barracks 19 asked.

Several men from the other barracks laughed.

"Like they told you. Eggnog, milkshakes and bland food. It's specially formulated so we don't get sick," he parroted. "There's so many of us here, we have to go over in shifts," Anderson explained. "Once you get used to the routine, it will all make sense."

Once the men settled in, they were escorted in small groups to another tent, where they filled out more forms.

Rogers put his new ID down on the table. The army lieutenant seated on the other side, took a good look at it and then passed an envelope over to Rogers. "This is your partial pay, sergeant. Sergeant?"

Rogers had zoned out for a moment. "Sorry, Lieutenant. Thank you."

The lieutenant nodded in sympathy. "You have a rough time?" he asked.

"Um, can't say."

"Yeah. So, I've heard." The lieutenant put aside any thoughts of the men from this Luft Stalag out of his mind. What went on at this camp and how the men were treated was way above his pay grade. The bigwigs would sort that out. He pointed to a corporal waiting by the entrance to the large canvas tent. "He'll take you to your intelligence briefing. Good luck. Next!"

Rogers sighed as he walked over. He felt like he was on a merry go round that never stopped. Changing horses with each rotation. "I can't wait until the colonel gets here," he mumbled.


	2. Chapter 2

_R.A.M.P.S_

_Chapter Two_

_April 21, 1945_

"Colonel. Colonel Hogan." Newkirk gently tapped the sleeping officer's shoulder. "Sir, we're at the airfield."

"What?" Hogan blinked away the cobwebs and rolled off the stretcher he had sacked out on.

"There's our plane." Carter excitedly pointed out the open back door of the truck. "Look!"

Hogan, still a bit unsteady after suffering, along with a large number of the other prisoners, from the illnesses and deprivations of the final months before liberation, gazed out at the organized chaos of a captured German airport. A C-47, engines running, waited at the end of a runway, while a plane took off from another. Corpsmen were in the process of removing wounded men from several ambulances, while other soldiers unloaded cargo from the waiting plane.

"We'd better move fast," Hogan said to his men. "Other planes are probably stacked up."

A sergeant carrying a clipboard noticed the new arrivals and came forward. He approached LeBeau, who had jumped off the back of the truck.

"You from Luft Stalag 13? We'll get this unloaded and put on board. You can all head over to the plane," he said in one breath. He left without waiting for an answer.

"You heard the man," Hogan, who was somewhat amused, cracked loudly. "Let's get this show on the road." Ignoring offers of assistance, he gingerly jumped off the back of the truck. Seeing the wounded, he said, "On second thought, if there's not enough room on the plane we can wait."

Hogan was stopped by the medic who had accompanied them in the hour-long drive from camp.

"Sorry, sir. You'll all need to be checked out at the hospital as soon as you get in. And they wanted you there yesterday. Orders."

"We can wait, Corporal."

"Yes, sir. I know, sir. I'm just letting you know what I was told to tell you, sir. It's a big plane and a big facility." The corporal looked at Hogan's men for help.

"We'll take care of it." Kinch winked at the medic, who wished the team a final good luck.

After the files, footlockers, and other personal items were put on the plane, Hogan and his senior staff sat down in their jump seats on the side, while the small group of wounded sent over from aid stations were secured in the back. It was a sobering experience for Hogan and his men to see the results of recent ground combat located so close to where they had spent the better part of the war. Once the plane took off and leveled out, Hogan left his seat and made his way to the back where the wounded were being cared for.

Mindful that he was still not feeling one-hundred percent, he made sure he did not get too close to the stretchers. Carter unbuckled and followed closely behind.

"Are these men all from the same company?" Hogan asked one of the flight nurses.

"Yes, sir. These are some of the ones stable enough to handle the flight out. They were ambushed by civilians shooting at them from buildings. We heard there were German kids and old men waiting for them."

Carter paled. "We heard SS were shooting or hanging their own civilians. The ones that wouldn't cooperate and start fighting."

A medic nodded. "It's a miserable war, sergeant."

Hogan remained silent. He knew things these men did not know, and he refused to add to their already heavy burden. He looked over at the soldiers on the stretchers, imagining the horrors they experienced.

LeBeau and Kinch, both lost in their own thoughts, remained in their seats. The sergeant, who had spent his time in camp as an equal, worried about what would happen to him once he set down at the American-run evacuation camp. Would he be forced to move into a segregated area? Kinch closed his eyes and tried to calm the butterflies forming in his stomach.

The French corporal, so excited and cheerful during the last days before liberation, attempted to squelch a sense of utter apprehension. True, he had been in Paris three times during his imprisonment, but he also knew that a great deal of his country was in ruins, many of his friends were missing and countless others were dead. Like Kinch, LeBeau closed his eyes and waited.

While Carter continued conversing with one of the medics, Hogan, still attempting to stave off a lingering cough, quickly moved back towards the front and collapsed into his seat. He buckled up and glanced over at LeBeau and Kinch.

"Hey, Kinch," Hogan whispered. "You all right?"

"Never better, sir." The sergeant opened his eyes. "You?" He took a good look at Hogan. The colonel was slightly pale and clearly exhausted. Yes. He had to make damn sure the medic's orders would be followed.

Hogan took a good look at his radioman. The normally unflappable sergeant appeared a bit flustered. Although the colonel had an idea of what must have been bothering Kinch, he decided now was not the time to press it.

"The wounded back there. They're all kids," Hogan mentioned.

Kinch sighed. "So were a good percentage of the men in camp, when you think about it."

The plane hit an air pocket, which Hogan and his men ignored. Groans from the wounded in the back could be heard over the noise of the engines. "They all grew up too fast," Hogan commented. "You know, kids were shooting at them from attics. Kids and old men."

"Not surprising," Kinch replied. He shut his eyes again. "Over a decade of propaganda and fear drummed into you day after day."

"You got that right," Hogan muttered. He turned his attention to LeBeau and Newkirk, who were clearly lost in their own thoughts and obviously fighting nerves. "LeBeau?"

The Frenchman had been staring into space, but quickly answered. "You need something?" He began to unbuckle his belt.

"No." Hogan stopped him. "Just wondering how you were doing. You've been awfully quiet."

"I'm afraid to look out the windows," LeBeau admitted. He thought he was ready to stare down at his country, and then something held him back. Fear, regret. He wasn't sure. The corporal looked down at the floor and began to nervously twiddle his thumbs.

Hogan nodded in understanding. "I'll try and get you out of the camp as soon as possible. The brass decided to fly over, so hopefully you won't need to go to London with the rest of us."

LeBeau was grateful. "I didn't know. Thank you. I have family and friends I need to track down. But, I do want to go to London, eventually."

"So does Olsen. Track down family, I mean," Hogan replied. "Hopefully this will all be over soon."

"The war or the debriefing, Colonel?" Carter had slipped back to his seat without the other three noticing.

"Both, Carter. I think the debriefing might last almost as long."

"I heard that, sir." Newkirk commented. "If that's the case, I might escape for real."

That got Kinch and LeBeau laughing.

"I may be right behind you, Newkirk," Hogan replied. Relieved at the change in his men's demeanor, Hogan leaned back in his seat and pulled his crush cap over his eyes. "Let me know when we get there." Like many military men, he was blessed with the ability to nod off at the drop of a hat. His men weren't far behind.

* * *

_April 21, 1945_

_1600 hours_

As they approached Le Havre, the crew notified the medical personnel and the sleeping passengers that they would be landing shortly.

Trucks and ambulances quickly drove over to the stopped aircraft. The wounded were gently taken off the plane, placed in the ambulances and transported to the hospital located by the edge of the runway. While a group of soldiers unloaded their gear, Hogan and his men were escorted to yet another truck and driven to the hospital as well. They deplaned and stared in amazement at the tableau in front of them. There were tents and fabricated buildings as far as the eye could see; a welcome sight considering the heavy damage the area incurred towards the end of the war.

"Holy cow," Carter said. "Look at the size of this place."

"The Army Corps of Engineers," their driver said proudly.

Wilson, Olsen and Baker, notified of the plane's arrival, were standing outside the hospital, fidgeting.

"Hey guys!" Carter, the first one to exit, greeted the trio.

"So?" Olsen grinned.

"The tunnels are gone. Kaboom," Carter answered with a surprising lack of enthusiasm.

Wilson, seeing that Hogan was still a bit slow, walked over.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, concerned.

"Coping," was Hogan's response.

"Good. This way, sir." Wilson pointed to the long hut housing one of the medical units lining the runway.

"Report, Wilson." Hogan asked the medic. "All accounted for?"

"I'm happy to report we're all accounted for. This unit houses everyone evacuated from the infirmary, plus a few others. Some have been discharged. They're all over there." Wilson pointed in the distance. "They put the rank and file in three hangers."

"I bet they're antsy."

"The barracks chiefs have control of the situation," Olsen added. "We're in a few tents." He pointed. "They're behind the hangars. You can't see them from here. That's where you'll be heading. After you're all checked out first."

"You mean we have to see the bloomin' doctors?"

"Regulations, Newkirk." Wilson explained. "Everyone has had a quick once-over."

"I suppose," the corporal muttered.

There was a lot of grumbling as they walked into the building, but attitudes quickly changed as they were reminded that this particular camp hospital came with nurses. "Maybe this isn't so bad," LeBeau whispered to Newkirk.

LeBeau, Newkirk, Kinch and Carter were ushered into a closed off area where they were examined by a cordial but efficient army doctor and an equally cordial nurse.

"I'm going to visit my men." Hogan headed towards the beds; but he was quickly blocked by Wilson. "Out of my way, Sergeant."

"I'm sorry, Colonel. Not until you're checked out. Besides, you could be contagious."

"You didn't think so in camp."

"I prefer to have a doctor make that call, sir."

Wilson steered Hogan into another cubicle. "Major Maddox. This is my C.O." Wilson introduced the two.

"Please take off your shirt, Colonel. It's good to see you arrived. I've heard a lot about you from your medic."

"Great," Hogan replied, as he unbuttoned his shirt. Jokingly, he added, "nothing good, I presume."

The major smiled. "I wouldn't say that. Okay. Breathe."

After Hogan's men were given extensive exams, they were released and given instructions to eat small frequent meals and to drink plenty of fluids. Unfortunately for the colonel, his doctor ordered a chest x-ray and a hospital bed.

"You can't do this," Hogan protested. "I have to start debriefing. And I have 900 men to process out of here." The prospect of all the work that needed to be done weighed heavily on the colonel. He felt like he was letting all of these men down. All of his men had sacrificed their freedom. Given the choice to leave, the vast majority agreed to stay in Luft Stalag 13 and help with the operation. As far as Hogan was concerned, even one extra day of dealing with bureaucracy and paperwork was one day too many. The rank and file deserved better.

"Sorry, sir," the doctor replied calmly as he was handing over the chart to a waiting nurse. "My orders outweigh your orders and your general's orders."

Wilson could read Hogan like a book. The colonel was becoming frustrated and angry, and that was not good for his health. "The entire control group has arrived," Wilson reminded Hogan. Seeing Hogan begin to stand, the medic immediately regretted his words-which had the opposite effect of what he intended. "Sir, please sit down. They're here to help expedite everything." He understood Hogan's need to move forward. He was as anxious as everyone to get out of Europe. But, his primary loyalty was to the health of the prisoners under his care; whether or not they were in camp or the evacuation center

"You put him up to this," Hogan said to Wilson

"No, sir. How could I?" Wilson, his arms folded across his chest, stood his ground. "We only just met."

"He didn't." Kinch, hearing the commotion, poked his head around the curtain. "Everything okay?"

"No," Hogan replied.

"Colonel Hogan is being held over for observation and some tests," Major Maddox informed Kinch.

"Oh. That's good," Kinch said. "I mean. Don't worry. We'll notify the control group for you."

Realizing he was being unreasonable, Hogan acquiesced. He mentally chided himself. "Fine. And the rest of the men. What about them?"

"Kinch can speak to them. Go with the nurse, sir." Wilson prodded him.

"This way, Colonel." The nurse gave Hogan a smile. The colonel sighed, grabbed his shirt and walked away.

"Feel better, sir." Carter said 20 minutes later. He, the rest of the senior staff, and Wilson had waited for Hogan to come back from x-ray. He was in bed, being poked and prodded.

"Thanks, Carter," Hogan replied.

"A spot of real tea is what you need. That will take care of things."

When he was attached to the RAF, Hogan realized what he had been missing when it came to tea. His family jokingly dubbed him a tea snob. "You're probably right, Newkirk, but I doubt they'll know how to make it the right way. This is an American base," Hogan reminded the Brit. The colonel tried to get comfortable. Although he wouldn't say it, he still didn't feel like himself, and he was grateful to finally have a chance to enjoy a real bed with real sheets.

"Oh, well. Never mind then. I won't 'old it against them, guv'nor." Newkirk offered a small grin. "At least you'll be able to get a spot of real coffee."

* * *

"So, how was he really, the last few days?" Wilson and Kinch were on their way to find the group of officers who had come over from London.

"Tired. Could barely make it up and down the tunnel ladders. But he was in a good mood. We were keeping an eye on him and updating the medics who were still there. But don't tell him I told you that." Kinch laughed.

"We were lucky we didn't lose anyone at the end," Wilson commented.

"I know." Kinch thought back to the last few months, recalling the pall and terror hanging over the camp, as one soldier after another fell ill and ended up in the infirmary.

* * *

_March 15, 1945_

_Hogan was trying to ignore both the grumbles in his stomach and the tightness forming in his chest when the tap on the door interrupted his paperwork. "Come in," he coughed._

" _Beggin' your pardon, sir." Newkirk glanced at the pile of work on Hogan's desk. The other prisoners often forgot that their C.O. had responsibilities besides the operation._

" _You're needed in the infirmary. Wilson sent a guard to fetch you."_

_The colonel wasted no time. He threw on his jacket, hurried out of the office and into the barracks, where Corporal Langenscheidt was waiting. "What's the problem?"_

" _Don't know, Colonel Hogan. Take some gloves. It's very cold."_

" _Here, sir." Carter tossed a pair over._

_The colonel noticed Langenscheidt had lost weight. It was no secret that both the guards and civilians in the area were also suffering. The cold was having a detrimental effect on Hogan, and he had to stop once to catch his breath._

" _Are you all right, sir?" Langenscheidt asked with concern._

" _Yeah, let's go."_

" _I need to get back to my post." Langenscheidt left Hogan at the door of the infirmary._

 _The colonel stepped in._ " _Wilson, what's up?"_

 _The medic turned around._ " _Three more came in today. I'm going to begin having to treat the men in their huts."_

" _Maybe we can convert the rec hall," Hogan suggested._

_Wilson shrugged. "If the pneumonia is viral, it's contagious. The patients should be isolated." He paused and looked._

" _You're staring, Wilson."_

" _Sorry. One more thing." The medic lowered his voice. "It's Glassman."_

" _No improvement?" Hogan asked._

" _He's worse. And we're out of penicillin. In case this is bacterial, I'd like for him to have the best shot."_

" _We asked for another drop," Hogan said as he followed Wilson further into the building. The signs of respiratory infections were obvious. Most of the men were coughing, while several were sneezing._

" _I've had to tap into the emergency medical supplies in the tunnels, Colonel."_

" _What's with the gastro problems?" Hogan coughed. "Excuse me."_

" _That's spreading. It may be just a symptom of everything else. The bad food supply. Weakened immune systems. But if they catch a respiratory infection on top of it…"_

" _Morning, Colonel." One of Wilson's assistants, carrying a thermometer, walked past. "103, Sarge."_

_"Let me see him," Hogan ordered. He followed Wilson towards the other side of the hut, stopping to say a few words to the other patients._

" _Over here, sir " Wilson whispered. He pointed to the last bed in the room. Another assistant was attempting to cool the patient down with a damp cloth._

" _Can you get me a chair?" Hogan asked. "Sergeant?" he asked the man in the bed who was pale and sweating. He got no response. "Sergeant Glassman," he repeated, this time more firmly._

_Glassman opened his eyes, and turned his head in the direction of the voice._

" _Sorry, sir." He coughed._

" _It's all right. Heard you weren't feeling too well."_

" _No, sir." Glassman closed his eyes as just the effort of talking tired him out. Although his fever was high, he was shivering._

_Hogan gently picked up the man's dog tags and saw that Glassman was only 21, quite a bit younger than the average age of the men in camp. He recalled it was around 26. The sergeant didn't stir at the movement as Hogan gently set them down. "What now, Wilson?" he asked the medic as they moved a few feet away._

" _If we don't get the fever down..." Wilson shook his head. "Or he'll drown in his own fluid."_

" _God." Hogan closed his eyes for a moment. "All those chances we took and now this. Oh, and two of the men in my barracks are coughing. Mills and Garth." Hogan stifled a cough._

" _I'll try and get over there. And you're coming down with something."_

" _How did you guess?" Hogan offered the medic a tired smile. "Don't worry about me. Listen, Olsen is out scouting for supplies. I'll let you know what he comes up with." Hogan went back over to Glassman's cot and sat back down._

" _You watch yourself, Colonel," Wilson touched Hogan's shoulder. "Last thing we need is for you to get worse."_

_Hogan remained at Glassman's side for several more hours; getting up only when the Kommandant came by to inspect the infirmary and assess the situation._

" _Thanks for coming by, sir."_

 _Klink's mouth was covered by a handkerchief. "They're my responsibility as well," he said._ " _I'm afraid I can't offer any encouragement," Klink said in a quiet voice. "We're low on food and medicine and I don't see any improvement in the near future."_

" _We are rationing and everyone is cooperating," Hogan replied._

_Klink looked at the colonel for a moment and noticed his complexion. The man did not look like himself._

" _You have good control over your men, Hogan. Let me know if there are any changes in anyone's condition."_

 _Klink left and Hogan resumed his vigil by Glassman's bedside_ _. As conditions in camp continued to deteriorate, Hogan_ _knew that Klink must be losing hope as the war dragged on and the Third Reich's prospects dimmed._ _It was unusual for Klink to directly offer Hogan a compliment, and Hogan wondered if Klink was either trying to ingratiate himself, or if his latent humanity was coming to the surface._

_For a short while, Glassman continued to sleep, but when he began to rouse, his breathing was rapid, and he appeared to be frightened. "Where are you from, Glassman? Hogan asked, although he already knew the answer._

" _The_ _Bronx, sir."_

" _Yankees fan?"_

_The sergeant attempted to nod._

" _Hmmm. I'll let you stay, I suppose. I like the Red Sox, but I won't run you out." Hogan received a small smile. He grabbed the wet cloth, and pressed it on the sergeant's forehead._

" _I don't think officers can do that, sir. Play favorites with baseball fans, I mean."_

" _If that was an option, no one would be in the army." Hogan felt Glassman's forehead. It was still burning. Without thinking, Hogan took the man's hand in his own._

" _I think he fell back asleep," Hogan told Wilson a short while later. He gently extracted his hand, and stood up and stretched._

" _You did a good thing today, Colonel," Wilson said as he walked Hogan back to the barracks._

" _He was terrified, Wilson. So were some of the other men. I mean with everything else… I have two jobs." Hogan lowered his voice. "Commander of the operation and Senior POW Officer. Sometimes one has to take precedence over the other. How are Mills and Garth?"_

" _I switched bunks, so they're as isolated as possible. Schultz knows." Wilson answered. "But it's a given some others will be hit. Carter's looking thinner, which I never thought possible, and LeBeau seems really tired."_

" _He's been dealing with the food situation," Hogan said. "I'll get him some help. We can move those two into my office," he said as an afterthought._

" _No," Wilson insisted. "You stay in there. Oh, and I brought my bag." He held it up. "I want to give you a once over. I can hear you're starting to wheeze."_

" _Good news," Kinch hustled over as soon as Hogan and Wilson came through the door. "As long as the weather holds out, we're getting a penicillin drop tonight."_

_This last drop likely saved not only Glassman's life, but others as well. However, towards the end of mid-March, Hogan's condition, as well as the condition of more prisoners and guards, worsened._

* * *

chapter) is my mother's maiden name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's notes:
> 
> thank you Abracadebra for her beta work on this story
> 
> There's no reason why you can't enjoy both tea (The British way) and coffee. I do. For those who don't know me-my dad was English. He was from London, growing up in the East End. He and his family emigrated to the States in '49 and educated my mother and her family on the perks of British tea. Not that we didn't have tea bags as well, but we referred to that as Schmatta tea. (Borrowed from Yiddish שמאַטע (shmate); originally from Polish szmata.) in this case, defined as rag. My dad's father used to cut open tea bags and store the loose tea in a container. But as far as I can remember, we were able to get loose British tea (Typhoo) in some of our grocery stores on Long Island.
> 
> According to various memoirs and documents, I discovered that wounded soldiers and liberated POW's shared some flights.
> 
> The C-47 has windows. (google images). It's possible some did not, but I didn't see any such photos.
> 
> Checking on the research I conducted for my 2009 story, The Stalag 13 Gazette, I determined that liberation of Luft Stalag 13 could have taken place on April 19th. This is based on fighting around Dusseldorf and the Ruhr. I'm of the opinion that the camp is located in the Dusseldorf area.
> 
> According to multiple sources, the average age of an American POW was 26.
> 
> approximately 4 percent of 260,000 American and British POWs died in Europe. There were 48,000 men in Lucky Strike in May of 1945
> 
> Penicillin does not work on viruses; only on bacterial infections. I assume Wilson would know this. (I wrote this chapter 10 years ago; looking at it now—-considering what is happening at the moment with the covid virus—-well, it makes me cringe.) It would have been difficult for the Germans in the area to get hold of the drug. Rationing for the Germans started before the outbreak of the war. Despite the spoils stolen from occupied territories, the civilians suffered nutritionally. Production of the drug was increased to the point that by D-Day millions of doses were available. See my note under the reviews for links and explanations.
> 
> I'm going under the assumption that Hogan is either from Bridgeport, Connecticut or spent time there, and adopted the Red Sox (from Boston) as his preferred team. (although that city is actually closer to NYC than Boston. Oh well.) This is only because the NY Mets didn't play their first season until 1962, LOL. (as you can see from my profile, I'm a long-time Mets fan) I will forgive Glassman for being a Yankees fan. The Yankees and Red Sox are one of the most well-known sports rivalries in the United States. Glassman happens to be my paternal grandmother's maiden name. Pasternack (one of the POW's in the first chapter is my mother's maiden name.


	3. Chapter 3

_Thank you Abracadebra for your assistance with this chapter (and keen eye as well). It is hard editing a decade-old story, especially when yours truly is having issues with typing at the moment!_

_RAMPS_

_Chapter Three_

_April 21, 1945_

17:30 hours

Carter, Wilson, and Kinch left the hospital and headed towards the area housing the brass from Allied headquarters in London. As they turned a corner, they spotted a group of high-ranking American and British officers headed their way.

"That must be General Butler," Carter said as he pointed towards an older man in his 50s. The three sped up and presented themselves to the officers.

"General, colonel. I'm Sergeant Carter and this is Sergeant Kinchloe," Carter said, presenting himself to the man with the most stars. "We're from Colonel Hogan's staff. And this is Sergeant Wilson, our medic."

"General Butler," the older man said, returning the salutes.

"Sergeant Kinchloe?" A man with a British accent stepped forward and held out his hand. "It's good to meet the man behind the voice."

Kinch smiled. "Thank you, Colonel Wembley." Kinch finally felt some relief. Although he knew everyone had his back, and that Colonel Hogan was in good hands, he felt out of his element. Here was someone familiar. A man he felt he could count on and who had some understanding of the unique circumstances of their work behind enemy lines. The overwhelming responsibility of this next phase of the war was keeping the radioman and Hogan's second in command up at night.

"Where's Colonel Hogan?" Butler asked.

"He's in the hospital," Kinch said.

"Medical exam." Wembley turned to Butler. "They all had to be checked out. Regulations."

"No, sir." Wilson stepped forward. "He's actually _in_ the hospital." The brass didn't faze Wilson. He was too old, too tired, and too experienced to let worries get the best of him. His nerves hardened during his time as a combat medic and after he landed in 13, when he had to worry about the men being injured while on missions outside the wire. The medic had a good relationship with Hogan and was on polite terms with the Kommandant-when necessary. But he also wasn't afraid to use his status, challenging authority as only a medic could.

"You mean he's still sick?" Butler asked.

"Yes, sir." Carter answered. "The doctor says he might have pneumonia. We were on our way to see you, General, and then we were going to head over to the hangars to brief everyone. Colonel Hogan asked us to handle that for now." Carter was nervous, and he took a deep breath to calm himself down. He was out of his element. Back in camp, there was always a new mission to complete, German officers to impersonate, explosives to design, and the danger of discovery always lurking around every corner. It was hard to overthink things, because there just wasn't time. And they certainly couldn't dwell too much on their precarious position. That was asking for trouble. Now that they were safe and had some time on their hands, Carter felt he was thinking too much, and rehashing some of their escapades. His stomach was fluttering. Dealing with these officers without the colonel by his side was scary.

"Wembley, why don't you go with the sergeants here, and we'll see if we can speak with Colonel Hogan inside." Butler looked concerned.

"Very well." Wembley took off with Kinch and Carter.

Kinch commented, "The doctor won't let them within five feet of the colonel. I'd bet on it."

Wembley chuckled. "The debriefing can wait." He turned serious. "How bad is he? He didn't sound too awful the last time we spoke."

"Better than he was. But he needs some sense knocked into him. Don't take that the wrong way, Colonel."

"I know what you mean, Sergeant Kinchloe. Let's get this show on the road, as they say."

* * *

General Butler stood in the reception area of the infirmary, trying but failing to impress his authority on the doctor in charge. When it came to medical decisions, an M.D. outranked even three stars. Peering through the doorway, Butler could see Hogan in a bed at the end of a row, there among a dozen sick enlisted men from Luft Stalag 13. He was not surprised to see that Hogan and his men were in the same hospital. Admitting the colonel to an office-only infirmary was not the right call given the circumstances. After all, he had initiated the orders requiring the quarantine of all POW's from Hogan's camp. (1)

"I'm sorry, General. Colonel Hogan is resting, and it hasn't been easy to get him to do that." The doctor, a major, stood his ground. "I understand your desire to speak with him, but I have to insist that you come back tomorrow."

"Very well." Butler turned to the others. "Might as well start the paperwork."

"I think the major just expelled some generals, Colonel Hogan," a corporal with a better view of the door, said from a few beds away.

"Oh, that's just great," Hogan grunted. Perking up as a young nurse approached, he decided to turn on the charm and smiled. "Can you do me a favor and run after the general? He just left? I'll…"

"Very funny, sir," the nurse said agreeably. Then, more firmly, she added, "No visitors. Doctor's orders. You were told that." Hogan, who was on top of the covers, legs and arms crossed, was clearly frustrated."Yes, but it…"

"First, get under the covers," the nurse interrupted. Hogan obeyed. "How do you feel?" she asked, as she brought over a cart.

"Fine." Hogan eyed her suspiciously then tried to stifle a cough.

"Uh huh. May I see your arm? I see you ate a bit."

"Hospital food," Hogan complained.

"Better than the camp, I'm sure," the nurse replied, tucking a dark strand of her hair behind an ear, and then wrapping a rubber tourniquet around the Colonel's arm.

"Well, actually most of the time our food… What are you doing?"

"Oh, come now, colonel. A pilot scared of a needle?" The nurse smiled again.

"I had control of my own plane," Hogan shot back; but he smiled as well.

A sergeant a few beds down was watching with amusement. "Anyone want to take bets on who wins?" he quipped.

"She will. His charm won't work," whispered the corporal who had seen the general leave.

The men in the hospital were scared and ill. But once their C.O. arrived, safe and sound, they relaxed. They seemed to coalesce into a form of a group mind, watching over the colonel from their beds, and asking for updates from the nurses and orderlies.

Glassman, who was now up and about for the first time in over a month, walked towards the group of prisoners watching what transpired. Most were sitting on their beds and a few were just standing around. "What's going on?"

"Colonel Hogan versus the nursing staff," answered one.

"He'll lose," Glassman predicted. They couldn't see what was happening, as the nurse had pulled a curtain around Hogan's bed.

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant. I didn't catch your name," asked Hogan.

"Lieutenant Gage, Colonel. So Dr. Maddox explained the results of your x-ray?"

"Yes," Hogan sighed. "It explains why I feel like..." He thought for a moment. _Need to watch my language_. "Why I don't feel very well," he muttered.

"That's better. Now you're being honest. I heard you pushed yourself a bit too much." The nurse smiled and picked up a stethoscope and a blood pressure cuff. "Your pressure is good," she said a few moments later. "All right. Just a few more shots and then I am done."

"In here?" Hogan held out his right arm.

"No, they go right in the tubing. You won't feel a thing. Penicillin." She held out the vial. "We believe you have bacterial pneumonia. It won't work if it's viral."

"We could have used that," Hogan told her. "We almost lost some men." He laid his head back on the pillow as he recalled the last drop of the miracle drug. Obviously, he could not admit to the nurse they had the drug, which Wilson swore saved the sickest patients in the infirmary.

The nurse paused. "I'm so sorry," she said softly. "But they all made it. You saw for yourself."

"You know Glassman?" Hogan asked in a lower voice.

"He's not my patient, but I know who he is."

"What's he saying?" The men closest to Hogan's bed were straining to hear the conversation. Bit by bit, the men from the other end walked over and joined them.

"I can't make it out."

"Small talk."

"Ten bucks on the colonel."

"You're on," Glassman whispered.

"He almost died. 21 years old. Of a stinking germ. Right in front of me." Hogan said very quietly as he thought back to that afternoon. At one point Glassman suffered a seizure, but he miraculously recovered.

Glassman thought he heard his name and paled. He instinctively stepped back.

The nurse noted something down in Hogan's chart and then stepped back from the bed. "Colonel Hogan. We've seen thousands of very sick young men coming through here. The men in your camp are very fortunate, and they're lucky to have you as their commanding officer."

"Thank you. But, I still need to see those generals."

"You don't give up," Gage laughed. "I want to prop you up. It will help your breathing. Two more shots. Vitamins. I'll be back later to check on you."

"I'm counting on it," Hogan flashed another smile, and then fell asleep within minutes.

The nurse sensed the men were listening in on the other side of the curtain. "Back to bed; every single one of you. Shame on all of you. And you…" She pointed at Glassman. "You should know better."

Glassman grinned sheepishly. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant. Is Colonel Hogan all right?"

"Yes. He should be fine," she assured him.

* * *

"Can I have your attention?" Kinch had to stand on a chair to be heard. Close to 900 men were being housed in three separate hangars, and he, Wembley, and Carter were in the first hangar, attempting to bring the large, raucous group of soldiers up to date.

"Colonel Hogan has to spend the night in the hospital, so he can't be here. He'll be all right, it's just a precaution," Kinch explained. "But we're still moving ahead on schedule. This is Colonel Wembley from our section in London." The men cheered and whistled.

"Thank you, Gentlemen," Wembley said. "Starting tomorrow, we will begin processing all of you, so we can get you home."

There were more cheers.

"You'll all have to go through a short debriefing," Wembley continued. "You'll have papers to sign and statements to review. A group of you will be held over for a short time." Wembley glanced at a list. "All barracks chiefs and department heads. A list will be posted and distributed. That's it. Oh, and I hear they will be bringing in some films tonight." The men cheered again.

"Next!" Carter said with enthusiasm. Now that Wembley was in charge, he could relax.

While Kinch and Carter spoke to the rank and file, Newkirk, Olsen, LeBeau and Baker were in their quarters, separating paperwork and sorting classified material from personal items.

"Glad we don't have to catalog this stuff," Baker groaned as he plopped a large stack on a table. A small cloth pouch given to him when he checked in fell, spilling some of its contents onto the floor. "Oops." Baker bent down and picked up the shaving materials and put them back. The toothpaste rolled over to where LeBeau was standing. He picked it up and handed it to Baker, who stuffed it in the pouch, which he tied around his waist. (2)

"How did we end up hauling so much paper all the way to France?" Olsen lamented. "I thought we burned most of it."

"Beats me," Baker replied, shaking his head as he concentrated on the task. His eyes gradually drifted to LeBeau, who was frowning as he plowed through papers. They were just 100 miles from Paris.

"This must be hard for you, Louis, being in your own country, so close, but still not really home."

"I've waited this long," LeBeau said with a Gallic shrug. Then he dipped his head down, and a moment later looked back up at Baker. "Non, you are correct, mon ami. It is hard," he said with a laugh that didn't quite travel to his eyes.

"You'll be home before us." Baker gave him a friendly slap.

"I'm staying," Olsen mentioned.

"Staying where?" Newkirk asked the sergeant.

"In Europe. Until the war is over. If I can, anyway. I'm going back for Heidi," Olsen explained.

"Don't blame you mate."

"That's sweet. Does she know?" LeBeau asked.

"I talked to her about it the last time I saw her."

"When was that?" Baker asked.

"The week in March when I left camp to scout for supplies."

* * *

_March 15, 1945_

_Despite the cold and the danger from fighting, Olsen volunteered to leave camp and make a last desperate attempt to head into town to scrounge up any food or medicine._

_Hogan was reluctant to let the sergeant go, but his fear of losing men to illness was so great at this point, that he agreed. "Stay clear of the Gestapo and the SS. They are rounding up civilians to fight."_

" _Don't want that, sir."_

" _Any sign of the SS, come right back." Hogan handled Olsen a pistol. "Check in on the radio." The radio was now being monitored 24/7. "Two days max," he ordered. "And give Heidi my regards." Hogan winked. Olsen and Heidi, who was Oscar's niece, had been dating for a few years; it was no secret that the two had postwar plans. (3)_

" _Thank you, sir." Olsen headed up the ladder left the tunnel and met Schnitzer and his truck in the usual spot._

" _This is probably the last time," he told the vet._

" _I know. A division moved through town yesterday."_

" _We heard."_

" _You've got to stay out of sight." Schnitzer warned. "They'll grab a young man like you."_

" _I'll be careful."_

" _Heidi has moved in with us. It's safer that way."_

" _That's good."_

_Olsen and Schnitzer made small talk on the way back to his farm, the vet taking a roundabout route to avoid checkpoints and other hazards. Olsen was greeted warmly at the door by Greta, the vet's wife. As soon as he entered the home, he and Heidi embraced._

_"I've been so worried about you," she told him after they separated. "And everyone in camp."_

_"We're holding down the fort." Olsen gave Heidi a reassuring smile and then followed the family into the kitchen. After a small meal, he brought everyone up on conditions at the camp and war news, and then went to bed._

_Both Schnitzer and Olsen woke up before dawn_. " _I don't know what you hope to find," Schnitzer told Olsen. "The townspeople are down to nothing. The officers, the police—they've taken everything. I can't wait to for this to be over. You can have this box of medicine." Schnitzer pointed to a small cardboard container he had set out on the kitchen counter. "I have nothing for infections, but there are items that may help with digestive ailments."_

" _Thanks." Olsen peeked in the box. He drained the cup of tea he was drinking, set down the cup and then picked up his pistol. "I'm leaving," he told Oscar. "Tell Greta and Heidi I'll be back." The women were sleeping._

" _But at this hour? It's almost dawn," Oscar protested._

" _I'm meeting with… Well, never mind," Olsen said. "If I'm successful, I'll need an unmarked truck."_

" _Our truck is by the side of the barn. You'll have to siphon some gasoline out of the dog truck. Brian, wait." Oscar stopped Olsen. "Be careful."_

_"I will." Olsen nodded at Oscar and then departed through the back door._

_Thirty minutes later, Olsen had navigated a series of roadblocks and stashed his truck in the back alley behind the Hofbrau. He was walking down a Hammelburg street…trying to avoid the gaze of any civilian walking by, and he steered clear of the occasional soldier and Gestapo agent. The town now looked shabby, and had an air of resignation about it. The population had grown however, as refugees from areas east continued to stream west. There were also refugees from bombed out areas in Dusseldorf, its suburbs and from the pockets to the west where fighting was taking place. Mercifully, the town center had not been bombed, and Olsen prayed it would be spared. He reached his destination, a basement entrance of a dingy building, waited for the appointed time, and knocked._

_The door swung open a notch. "Yes? What do you want?"_

" _You may have something I need," Olsen responded. He took out some cash, and displayed the top of the wad._

_The door opened further, revealing a scruffy-looking man his 40s who was sporting a few days' stubble. His gun was pointed squarely at Olsen's chest. "How do I know you're not Gestapo?" He looked down. Olsen's weapon was clearly visible and the German held out his hand. "Your weapon," the man demanded._

_Olsen reluctantly handed it over. "There's no one else here," Olsen said. "I'm alone."_

" _That's stupid," the man replied. Olsen just shrugged. "Either that, or you are desperate."_

" _If I'm Gestapo, you'll kill me. If not, well. I have something you can use in exchange. Dollars or marks. Your choice." Olsen was used to appearing nonchalant. He had learned a lot about acting since arriving at the POW camp._

_The man opened the door and led Olsen down the stairs and into a back room, which was not visible from the street. Boxes were spread haphazardly over the floor and tables. Two more men were seated at a table by a side wall. "Start talking," one said._

" _Only if you promise to return my pistol."_

" _After we deal."_

_Olsen thought for a moment. "Fair enough. I'm looking for food and medicine."_

" _Everyone is. Let me see the cash."_

_Olsen held out some of the money. "This isn't all of it. Show me the stuff first."_

_One man, who appeared to be the leader, nodded to the man who let Olsen inside. He picked up a box and placed it on the table._

_Olsen looked in and saw that it was packed with cans of food. "Medicine?" He asked._

" _Not a chance," the man replied. "The last batch went last week. We'll take all of your dollars. We'll give you six boxes. Take it or leave it."_

" _It's a deal." Olsen took back the money, which had been placed on the table. "I'll be back with a truck. Tonight."_

" _Eleven," the man responded. "Alone." He handed the pistol back. "Plus I want a deposit."_

_Olsen gave in and counted out some bills._

_"Good. You know a young guy like you? You're taking a huge chance being out. You could get recruited, if you know what I mean. See him out, Jurgen."_

" _I've done my time," Olsen responded as he left._

_Olsen waited several minutes, then leaned up against the side of the building. His stomach was in knots and his hands were shaking. This was not his first time dealing with the black market, but it was a situation Hogan normally tried to avoid. (4) Things had deteriorated so much that any dealings could be fatal. After calming down, Olsen made his way down the street in the shadows of the buildings to get his truck, then headed back to Schnitzer's farm. It was just past dawn and Heidi and Greta, along with Oscar, were all waiting for Olsen's return._

" _I guess you can say mission successful," he said quietly as he hung up his coat. He gave Greta a hug and Heidi a kiss, and then collapsed in a chair. "I have to go back at eleven tonight."_

" _But the curfew."Heidi began to rub Olsen's shoulders. "There will be a lot of police out there. It's been getting worse."_

" _I can handle it," he answered as he squeezed her hand._

" _Have some breakfast," Greta urged._

" _No," Olsen refused. "Save the food."_

" _You're no good to anyone hungry or sick. Take it."_

" _Listen to her," Oscar chided him._

" _We still have jars in the basement," Greta explained. Olsen ate and then crashed to sleep right there in the deep chair where he had just devoured his toast and coffee. The stress of dealing with the dark underbelly of wartime commerce had caught up with him._

" _He went to the black market, didn't he?" Heidi asked her uncle._

" _Desperate times. Some of the boys in the camp could die without food and supplies."_

" _I wish he would stay in the camp. It's safer." Heidi began to remove the dishes._

" _You worry about him; he worries about you. Have faith. I think it's almost over."_

_That evening after supper, as artillery could be heard in the distance, Olsen asked to speak with Heidi alone. "I don't think I'll be back in after this."_

" _I understand." Heidi began to tear up._

" _Your uncle will still be coming to camp. I guess for the dogs. So we can pass notes."_

" _I'll write," Heidi promised._

" _Um." Olsen reached into his pocket. "I have something for you." He handed her a small package wrapped in brown paper and tied up with some string._

_She eagerly opened it. "Oh my." Heidi stared at what appeared to be an engagement ring.(5)_

" _It's not real. We had some extra fake diamonds lying around, and the guys in the metal shop made the base. I'll replace it after the war," Olsen explained._

" _Are you asking me to marry you?" Heidi was crying tears of joy._

" _Yes." Olsen wiped a tear off his cheek. "After this is over. We can stay here if you want. But I can try to get permission to bring you back to the states."_

" _Yes, the answer is yes."_

_Olsen successfully completed the black market exchange and brought back six cartons of food. Not much, but more than they had. LeBeau and Wilson carefully rationed out the items to the sickest soldiers, while everyone prayed that all the men would survive._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Trying to determine if enlisted and officers had separate hospitals/wards in Camp Lucky Strike. I don't recall reading anything to that effect, but I'm going to research this further as my beta seems to recall seeing this in a schematic. In any event, due to the special circumstances surrounding these POWs, they would keep them together. I also can't see Hogan agreeing to any separation at any rate.
> 
> (2) Pete House memoir www . indianamilitary German % 20PW % 20Camps / Transit % 20Camps / Lucky % 20Strike . htm
> 
> (3) See my story "The Outside Man." I also gave Olsen a German background. His mother was German and his father was American. Heidi (Oscar's niece) appeared in one episode.
> 
> (4) Clearance Sale at the Black Market (season 4, episode 1) is one example.
> 
> (5) It was pointed out to me that engagement rings are more of an American custom. There were obviously fake diamonds leftover from the escapades during the Diamonds in the Rough episode.


	4. Chapter 4

_RAMPS_

_Chapter 4_

_April 21, 1945_

_Lucky Strike, Evening._

Carter and Kinch returned to the tent and joined LeBeau and Newkirk outside for a smoke and some air. Two MPs approached the group, stopped, and motioned for their leashed guard dogs to sit. After they scanned the area, they eyed Kinch with hostility for a moment, but said nothing and then headed away from the Luft Stalag's own little corner of the Lucky Strike camp.

"Don't worry; you get used to it." Kinch had seen the astonished looks on Newkirk and LeBeau's faces.

"Doesn't make it right." Carter stubbed out his cigarette. "I heard they segregated the rest of the camp. Including officers. And the boats going out of here are also segregated," he added with disgust.

"I heard Colonel Hogan reading the riot act to some people over the phone. Just after we were liberated," Kinch said. "I guess he convinced the American military to make a few exceptions to Jim Crow. Just for us." He kicked the dirt in frustration.

The men remained silent for a few moments. There was no way to justify or explain the hypocrisy of the segregated American armed forces.

Newkirk decided to change the subject. "Hey, I hope the Schnitzers are okay. And the dogs, as well."

"Olsen said they have food saved up. He wants to stay and go back for Heidi before going home," LeBeau explained.

"Makes sense, I suppose, now they're engaged."

"Ah. L'amour." LeBeau laughed. "I do miss the dogs."

"Me too. I'm going in. I'm looking forward to sleeping on a real mattress." Kinch opened the tent flap and Carter and Newkirk followed. "Are you coming, Louis?"

"I'll be right there." It was hard for LeBeau to believe he was in France; being at an American base was surreal. He continued to dwell on the damage to his country. What he had seen of the coastline and the interior was unrecognizable and just thinking about it made his stomach cramp from nerves. He suddenly started as a guard dog barked.

* * *

_March 20, 1945_

" _Down. I know. I love you too, but you need to stop." LeBeau's face was being licked by Heidi, the friskiest of the guard dogs. Standing on its hind legs, the dog was as tall as the corporal. "If you get down, I'll give you a treat." The dog quickly sat and wagged its tail. "Here." LeBeau reached into his pockets and tossed some treats to the shepherd. "Wait." He quickly flung himself down to avoid a search light and popped back up. The sudden movement made him dizzy and he was forced to grab hold of the dog for support. She whined. "Merde. Je sais." He patted the dog's head. "We're all getting sick. But not you if I can help it." He gave the animal another pat and disappeared into the tunnel._

_"I'm worried about the dogs," he told Kinch._

Kinch tweaked a dial on the radio. " _Never mind the dogs. You don't look so good. Go see Wilson or I'll tell the colonel."_

" _Tomorrow," LeBeau promised. "And don't bother him. When is Schnitzer due back?"_

" _Two days. I hope," Kinch replied. "You're right, Louis. We need a plan. Before the Germans shoot them, or the Americans do."_

_Oscar had the same thing on his mind when he showed up in camp two days later. By now, the prisoners were openly speaking with the vet. Either the guards did not notice or they just did not care._

" _This is for Olsen." He handed a letter to Newkirk, who smelled it._

" _Lovely." Newkirk took the vet aside. "We wanted to discuss the dog situation with you."_

_Oscar nodded. "Good. I wish to discuss it as well." After checking the dogs in the pen, he climbed down into the tunnels through the doghouse. The vet smiled as he saw Hogan coming over to meet him._

" _Here's the thing, Oscar. "We're in a proper jam,"  
The colonel told Oscar after they shook hands._

_Hogan and the vet took a seat at the table in the common room. "As long as we're still POWs, they'll keep the dogs, but then we'll get to the point that it will become too dangerous for you to come get them. And," he continued, "I doubt Klink will fight for the camp, but we can't take that chance." The colonel stifled a cough and took a sip of some hot broth._

_Oscar looked down. "And then the Germans or Americans will shoot them."_

" _We won't let that happen," Hogan reassured the vet. "We'll sneak them below if we have to. Can you start removing them one at a time without replacing them? At least get a few out."_

" _Yes," Oscar agreed. "I'll take one tonight and one or two each week until it's over."_

" _We'll keep you posted." Hogan walked the vet to the door. "Hopefully, we will have some good news and you'll be able to pick them up."_

_A soft knock on his office door startled the Kommandant, causing him to knock over his trashcan, spilling ashes all over the floor. Cursing to himself, he grabbed hold of the edge of the desk for support and rose to his feet._

_"Enter," he stated, as he used his foot to try to sweep some of the ashes under his desk. It did not work. He turned and to his surprise, it was not the aide at the desk who crossed the threshold, but Hogan._

_"Sorry, sir. Your aide is otherwise engaged. I saw myself in." Hogan stared down at the floor for a moment. He wisely decided to keep his mouth shut and not make a snarky comment about how Klink was obviously burning documents._

_"Have a seat, Hogan." Klink walked around to his chair and sat. He pointed to the chair in front of his desk. "What can I do for you?"_

_Neither man was in the best of health at the moment. But Klink, who was quite a few years older than the American, was shocked at Hogan's appearance. The colonel's complexion was pallid, and his shirt was hanging off his frame. His hair was thinning and showing flecks of gray; this was not surprising. However, what shocked him more than anything were Hogan's eyes. They were sunken, and no longer had that annoying twinkle and look of intelligence that continued to shake Klink's self-confidence and deflate his ego._

_Hogan realized this conversation had to be handled delicately. While the guards noticed the vet conversing with the prisoners, the Kommandant thus far was oblivious to_ _this fact. Of course, Hogan and Oscar would come up with an excuse if it caused an issue—and Klink and the guards still thought the dogs were killers, at least when it came to controlling the prisoners._

_Hogan bent forward and placed his arms on the desk. "You and I both love animals. One thing we have in common."_

_Klink nodded. "Of course. You know the Führer also..."_

_"Do not mention him." Hogan's eyes flashed in anger._

_Klink swallowed. "I do love animals."_

_"Good." Hogan sat back in his chair. "You may find this surprising, but I'd like to talk about the guard dogs."_

_Klink tilted his head in surprise, reminding Hogan of Wolfgang. He stifled a chuckle._

_"I confess that is not what I expected to hear. What about them?" Klink asked._

_"I've been dealing with dogs all my life. We all know the guard dogs here are killers and quite frightening. But, that's their training. Not their fault. I've seen some of the guards caring for them-when the dogs aren't on duty. The vet, Schuler, Siegfried..."_

_"Schnitzer," Klink interrupted._

_"Schnitzer," Hogan repeated. "I don't know how he is away from camp, but I've watched him from a safe distance when he goes in the pen. He treats them like his children."_

_"I have noticed that as well. What is your point?" Klink asked._

_We don't want to see anything bad happen to them. Being shot, or...well...you know."_

_"That is very generous of you and your men, Hogan. I have been informed that the vet will be removing them from camp, maybe two at a time. But some have to stay here to guard you and your men." Although considering the conditions, Klink thought, I doubt we will have any issues._

_"Don't release them into the woods, sir. When it comes to it, I hope they can be rehabilitated."_

_"This is a very unusual conversation, Hogan. I cannot promise anything, but I will see what I can do."_

_Hogan nodded. "Permission to return my barracks?"_

_"Granted." Klink noticed that the colonel did not offer a smart quip, nor a snippy comment._

_"Thank you, sir." Hogan got up slowly and left the office, leaving Klink shaking his head in disbelief._

_Hogan returned to the barracks and sat at the common room table. The men paused what they were doing and waited for a report._

_"I think I got the point across," Hogan stated._

_It was actually Garth, one of the quietest men in the room, who had the courage to say what everyone else was thinking. It was horrible to contemplate, although they all knew this was happening all over Europe. Not just to dogs, but cats, horses and other pets._

_"People are starving, sir," Garth stated. "Can't blame them really." He ignored LeBeau's glare. "Not that I want anything like that to happen to our dogs." He cleared his throat. "They're, well...I guess they're family?"_

_You could hear a pin drop as multiple sets of eyes looked at Hogan for a response._

_Hogan often thought about the abuse of animals during wartime. It was just another horror on top of all the other horrors. "We will do everything in our power to make sure anyone who helped our operation stays safe, and that includes the dogs." After a satisfied response from the men in the barracks, Hogan left the common room and went to bed._

_Several dogs were removed from camp over the next few weeks. Soon, it became too dangerous for Schnitzer to return, and the guards were left caring for the dogs, which basically meant throwing inedible food scraps into the pen. Klink kept to his word and did not release any into the woods. The prisoners sneaked in now and then to spend quality time with the stressed out animals as they all waited for the end._

_The dogs, like the prisoners, were finally liberated. After Hogan spoke with the commanding officer of the battalion that liberated the camp, he_ _made clear that the animals were part of the secret operation. When the area around Hamelburg was completely secure, Schnitzer returned to camp to pick up the dogs and officially ended his underground service; somehow, the dogs understood they were leaving and they became rambunctious and excited. It took Schnitzer and help from LeBeau and Olsen to load them into the truck._

" _We'll be in touch, Oscar." Hogan held out his hand, which the vet shook. There was no need to speak more words. The two men knew what they had meant to each other and being men, they held their emotions in check._

" _You take care of yourself, Robert. And see a doctor."_

" _Give my best to Greta and Heidi, and your father, as well," Hogan replied._

" _I'll do that."_

_Hogan and LeBeau stepped back as they saw Olsen coming forward. The sergeant and vet exchanged a few quiet words; then embraced quickly. And with that, the vet and the dogs were gone._

* * *

LeBeau vowed to rescue a homeless dog when he got home, and then returned to the tent.


	5. Chapter 5

_RAMPS_

_Chapter 5_

_Camp Lucky Strike_

_April 22, 1945_

_early morning_

Hogan, sensing a presence, slowly opened his eyes. "Oh, it's you," he groaned as he spied Wilson sitting at his bedside. "What are you doing here?"

"Glad to see you're your usual self, sir. Grumpy," Wilson said with a straight face. The medic moved aside a curtain surrounding Hogan's bed, making his area at the end of the building seem a bit more roomier.

"Dopey is more like it." Hogan hoisted himself up in an attempt to get more comfortable. "Guess I fell asleep." Now that the one curtain was gone, he leaned forward and glanced at the other men in the ward. Several were eating, while others had screens around their beds. The bed next to him was now empty. Satisfied everyone was being cared for, Hogan began to reach for his watch, which was in a drawer. The motion hurt, and he wisely stopped.

"You've been asleep for fourteen hours," Wilson stated.

That got Hogan's attention. "What? Get the doctor and get me out of here. I've got to…"

"Hold it! You're not going anywhere yet. Breakfast?" Wilson reached over to the bedside table and picked up a plate and fork.

"No. I'm not that hungry." Hogan, annoyed at never being able to finish a sentence, gave the medic a dirty look. "Report?"

"Well, all right." Wilson put down Hogan's breakfast and removed a pad of paper from his pocket. "Three more men have been discharged from the hospital, including your former next-door neighbor, Reynolds. They brought in some movies last night."

Hogan perked up. "That's great! Which ones?" He then frowned. "I hope they didn't bring in any newsreels."

"No newsreels, sir. They had prints of _Meet Me In St. Louis._ That's a musical with Judy Garland," Wilson replied. "And _Arsenic and Old Lace_. Cary Grant was in that one. That's a black comedy. I was pretty busy, so I didn't see them. They are starting to process everyone this morning."

"That's important. And our debriefing?" Hogan shifted impatiently.

"The men sorted the paper items and the brass is beginning to look them over." Wilson snapped his fingers. "Oh yeah. They wanted me to make sure you knew about the telegrams."

"What telegrams?"

"To send home, Colonel. Here." Wilson handed Hogan a pad and a pencil. "Write down the information and your message and I'll get it out. We're a special case, I guess. Most of the guys-the ones liberated from other camps-were told to write letters. This is faster."

"Home?"

"Yes, sir."

"We shouldn't be given special treatment," Hogan complained, as he wrote down his message and handed it back to the medic. Now tired from the exertion, he laid his head back down.

"Well, some of these guys will be here longer than the others, for obvious reasons. I guess it's the least London could do. Get some rest, sir. I'll check on you later."

"Tell the men to check in," Hogan shouted as Wilson left. "Oh hello," he said to a nurse, who had come over. "You aren't Gage."

"No sir. She's off duty. I'm Lieutenant DeSoto."

Hogan took a breath, which hurt, and drew upon his charm. "I'm better. I need to get out of here. Can you tell the doctor I have to be discharged?"

The few men within earshot chuckled and went back to eating their breakfast.

DeSoto smiled at Hogan and took a look at his chart.

"Lieutenant Desoto. I asked you a question," Hogan said sharply, trying a new tactic. Command tone.

It didn't work.

The colonel let out as deep a breath as he could. He realized that the best medical personnel had a special way of controlling those under their care; a subtle talent of softening the blow while getting their way. This brought his memory back a day in camp where, unfortunately, Wilson took control.

* * *

_Luft Stalag 13_

_March 24, 1945_

"You aren't better, sir," Wilson argued. "In fact, you're getting worse. Do me a favor. Go to bed. You just told me you can't take a deep breath."

"I can't. There's too much to do." Hogan began coughing, and Wilson brought out the stethoscope. Hogan removed his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. Wilson listened, and to his consternation, heard wheezing and other sounds he did not want to hear.

"Like what?" Wilson looked at Hogan and waited for an answer.

"Air raids." Cough. "Planes passing over being hit."

"Let the other men go out. They know what to do."

"LeBeau is sick." Cough.

"Use someone else."

"Carter is sick."

"There are nine hundred men in this camp, Colonel. Surely someone else besides Carter, LeBeau, Newkirk, and Kinch can go out. Well?"

"Olsen," Hogan whispered. "Foster, Baker. I always kept it to a minimum."

"I know. But these are desperate times. Here. Stick this in your mouth. I need to know what you're going to do with any prisoners you rescue. You can't get them to the coast, can you?" After enough time had passed, Wilson removed the thermometer. He shook his head.

"No, the Underground will hide them until we can transfer them to Allied lines."

"All right." Wilson opened the door. "Kinch, can you come in here, please?"

"Wilson." A suspicious Hogan stood up. "Wait one moment."

As soon as Kinch entered the room, Wilson, a sad look on his face, spoke. "Colonel Hogan. I'm officially relieving you of duty and ordering bed rest. You may meet briefly with Klink if necessary, and that's it. You will not be allowed to handle any outside operations, and absolutely no trips into the tunnels."

Hogan was a protective commander. And he was stubborn as an ox. But, he had common sense. "Kinch," Hogan said quietly. "Please notify London of Wilson's orders. You're now in charge of the operation. And let McMahon know he's the new MOC." (1)

"Yes, sir." Kinch immediately left, closing the door behind him.

"I'll go to bed." Hogan stood up and began removing his shirt, grabbing hold of the bunk frame for support. To the colonel's dismay, the medic helped him get into bed. "Wilson, ask Schultz to take you over to Klink's office. Let him know what's happened."

Wilson held his tongue. He knew in this case his victory was not sweet.

* * *

_Camp Lucky Strike_

"Lieutenant Desoto. I asked you a question," Hogan repeated, this time in a softer voice.

Desoto put down the chart and walked to the edge of the bed. "I'm sorry, sir. That is up to the doctor." She pulled the curtains back around and began her examination. "He'll be by shortly. You need to eat. I know it's bland, but it is specially formulated."

Hogan laughed. "You sound like a walking advertisement." He reached over and picked up the plate. "Yum," he said sarcastically as he took a first bite. The nurse smiled and wrote information down on the chart.

"Good. I'll be back." She left, nodding at man Hogan presumed was a doctor. She conferred with him quietly for a moment and then left.

The man took a quick peek at the chart and introduced himself.

"Colonel Hogan, I'm Colonel Martin. I'm in command of this facility. I hear you have been harassing my nurses."

"Harassing? No, that's an exaggeration. And call me Robert."

Martin moved the curtains and pulled up a chair. "Jim. I've been briefed on your unique situation and I know this is frustrating. But, if we release you too soon...well, in these cases, relapses are all too common."

Hogan changed the subject. "What's the story with the rest of the boys in here? My medic said three were discharged."

"Yes. I don't know their names off hand, but they've sufficiently recovered and have been transferred back to the rest of the population. We're taking it slower with some of the others. Just to be sure."

"That's fine. I can't believe we ended up like this."

Martin nodded in sympathy. "I can tell you stories and recite statistics that will make your blood curdle. You are all very fortunate. Some of the men coming through here weigh less than a hundred pounds."

"Yeah. I guess we are fortunate and…" Hogan spied Kinch and Newkirk walking down the aisle separating the two rows of beds.

The sergeant stopped and spoke with several of the other patients; then, while Newkirk continued visiting, Kinch headed over. "Morning, sir. How are you feeling? Doctor."

Hogan handled the introductions. "Colonel Martin. This is my second in command. Sergeant Kinchloe."

"Pleased, Sergeant. Actually, I was about to ask the same question and conduct an exam."

"We can leave," Newkirk, who had sidled up behind Kinch, said.

"I need a few moments first with my men," Hogan explained.

"Granted. I was just explaining how important it was not to overdo it. Relapses are a concern," Martin said.

"We've had experience with that." Kinch looked at Hogan as the doctor stepped away.

"Looks like they have everything under control in here. It's everywhere else that I'm worried about. Give the word and I'll pull rank and get out of here."

"With all due respect Colonel, you're not getting any sympathy from me." Kinch smiled. "Besides you can't pull rank on the chief medical officer."

"It didn't work with Wilson," Newkirk added as he stopped by the side of the bed.

"You're right. I'm just frustrated and chomping at the bit," Hogan admitted.

"Understandable. You look better today, by the way," Kinch said.

"Thanks. Give me a report." Hogan briefly closed his eyes, coughed and then opened them again. "Oh." He groaned and grabbed his ribs.

Kinch started talking, fast. "Processing has started with the rank and file. By barracks. But we have to wait for a troop ship. Once they're debriefed they may be moved either into the general population or at least allowed access to the facilities."

"I want to see them off," Hogan complained.

"You'll get a chance," Kinch replied. "Look. Here comes General Butler and his posse."

Hogan grinned. "Posse?"

Kinch laughed. "Baker coined the name. They're going through documents, but I think he'll be heading over here today."

"That's good. I think. And you and the rest are up to what?"

"Keeping things under control, sir. They're taking us all back to London," Newkirk explained.

"No!" Hogan struggled to sit up. "Not LeBeau. He doesn't need to go."

"Easy! Here. Have some water." Kinch handed Hogan a glass.

Hogan sank back down. "I need to talk to Butler," he said quietly as he spied the doctor returning.

Kinch nodded.

"You know we were damn lucky."

"Not getting caught. I know," Kinch said.

"No." Hogan shook his head. "The POWs coming through here. The conditions in the other camps...We were lucky we had Klink."

"You're right about that, guv'nor. We really had no idea what to expect the day Wilson relieved you," Newkirk recalled.

"I admit, I didn't either," Hogan replied. "Considering how much stress he was under by then, he handled it better than I anticipated." He looked at Kinch, his eyes betraying his feelings about what transpired. It couldn't be helped, but he still felt awful about the travesty.

Kinch, for his part, knew what his commander was thinking. He placed his hand on Hogan's free arm, and the radioman's eyes told a story of understanding and loyalty.

Hogan blinked away tears and repeated,"Yup, we were lucky we had Klink." He held back a shudder as he recalled being removed from command and his conversation with Klink afterwards.

* * *

Luft Stalag 13

_March 24th, later that day._

"Hogan, I am sorry to hear about you being relieved." Klink was looking for a place to sit. It was obvious to Hogan that the Kommandant was wary of getting too close.

"Sit down, sir." Hogan put the down the book he had been reading and pointed at the chair.

"Yes," Klink said as he brought the chair as close as he felt comfortable. "Where was I? I am, well, concerned."

"Thank you," Hogan answered, surprised. "But my staff here knows what to do. And McMahon has a good rapport with the rest of the prisoners."

"About that. I do not recall ever meeting Sergeant McMahon, not since he arrived, that is. I expected someone from this barracks to take over, Hogan."

"Well, Carter has the highest rank, sir. But, he's sick. And the rest have enough to do. I think McMahon will be fine. He'll be able to relay any concerns to you."

Klink nodded. "I expected perhaps to see Sergeant Kinchloe in my office, Hogan."

Hogan closed his eyes. Kinch has enough on his plate besides dealing with the regular routine right now. And Kinch and the rest were fine with using McMahon. Hogan had to think of a reasonable reason to tell Klink why the sergeant was not appointed temporary MOC. Unfortunately, that was all too easy. And not far from the truth. "Honestly, sir. We haven't had any racial problems in camp since I've been here. But, I have no idea how some of the men would take it if I appointed Kinchloe MOC. Especially with the ground troops that recently came in."

"Ah, I see. Most unfortunate," Klink whispered. "To be honest, Hogan, I have found Sergeant Kinchloe to be an asset to the camp population. I have spoken with him alone several times. Your country's history in this matter has given my country quite a propaganda tool."

Hogan wisely held back his tongue, although inside he was seething. First of all, he knew Klink was correct. Not only that, but the military segregation policy was costing the United States extra money and manpower just to implement the ridiculous guidelines. But for a German to complain about segregation when they were exterminating entire groups of people was uncalled for, although Hogan suspected that Klink did not know of the full extent of the atrocities taking place all over Europe. If Klink did know; well, Hogan would face that moral dilemma later. (2)

"Yes, I know."

Klink raised his eyebrows in surprise at Hogan's agreement. "I do not recall since you came here, you ever having anything more than a cold."

"I guess it catches up to you." _The stress_ , Hogan said to himself. The late night forays into all kinds of weather. The close calls.

"Yes, that must be it." Klink replied. "I am sorry I cannot offer anything but sympathy. We are down to nothing, but you know that."

"How are the guards?" Hogan began a fit of coughing. After it subsided, he repeated his questions. "The guards. How are they?"

"Thank you for asking Hogan. I shall pass on your concern. But, you are trying to get information." Klink wagged his finger at him.

"I'll never stop trying," Hogan grinned.

Klink stood up. "I see you have items to keep yourself occupied."

"Signing off on duty rosters." Hogan picked up his book. "Catching up on my reading. 'Tale of Two Cities,' by Dickens. Are you familiar with it, Kommandant? Maybe you read it before your countrymen started burning books." (3)

"Hogan…yes, I've read it. A long time ago."

"Maybe I should take up knitting." Hogan sat up further and swung his legs over the bed. "I get up every so often to walk around the office. It helps. I'll start with a scarf. Initial AH of course. Then let's see…Himmler, Goering, and Goebbels." Hogan counted them off on his fingers. "You tell lies often enough, people will believe anything."

Klink began to show his anger. "Hogan if you were not so sick, I would throw you into the cooler for your insolence. And arrogance," he added for good measure.

"It was the best of times. Seems appropriate." Hogan picked up the book. "Here, take it."

Klink shook his head. "There will be no Red Cross packages. They cannot make it through the lines." Klink sighed. "I have to cut electricity. Lights out two hours earlier."

"Then skip a roll call."

"Hogan, you are not in command. NO bargaining. And no…Now is the time your men would take advantage. Both roll calls will continue, even if a quarter of the prisoners cannot stand. Go back to bed." Klink did not wait for a salute. "I will inform Sergeant McMahon of the changes," he said as he walked out the door.

"Kinch"? Hogan cracked through the open door a few moments later.

The sergeant walked in. "Something I can get for you, sir?"

"Did you hear?"

"Klink gave me a report," Kinch smiled. "Not good is it?"

"No. I don't know if you heard the conversation about the MOC? Klink was surprised I didn't pick you."

"We already went over it, Colonel. We're really tied up here, especially with half this barracks sick. And we don't need any other tension in camp. I know it's been fine, but all it takes is one complaint or someone not showing respect, and then it can spread."

Kinch thought back to his training down south and the experience of total segregation. Life was bad enough in Detroit and other northern areas if you were colored, but the south was indescribable. It took every ounce of self-restraint for Kinch and other men to not fight back when goaded or abused. Fighting back would have been disastrous for them, as justice was not blind. Things improved marginally in England, as the residents of the small town where his unit was stationed welcomed everyone equally. Ironically, the biggest improvement occurred when he was captured and sent to Stalag 13. He experienced no unusual problems with the Luftwaffe personnel who took him in and conducted interrogations, although he suffered similar harsh conditions as other new prisoners. Klink could care less what color, nationality or religion a prisoner was, as long as they obeyed the rules and stayed put. And Hogan, well… Klink and the others quickly realized Hogan was a man ahead of his time. He refused to tolerate racism and prejudice and sent home several men who threatened to cause problems in the camp. Unfortunately, Kinch and the few other American colored personnel in camp knew they would return to a segregated military once they were liberated, and an unfair system once they were back in the states. He sighed; then noticed that the colonel had fallen asleep. He covered Hogan with a blanket. "Sleep well, sir."

After speaking with McMahon and Schultz, Klink eventually relaxed the roll call procedures. This humane step helped some of the sick prisoners recover more quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI: This chapter has not been betaed. Please let me know if there are any issues. I'm also starting to adjust the italicized portions in each chapter. Hopefully will be able to add some transitions and repost-leaving the flashbacks in regular type.
> 
> 1) MOC stands for Man of confidence. In POW camps for enlisted men, a MOC was elected by POWs to be the liaison between the Kommandant and prisoners. Meteorologist Master Sergeant McMahon was featured in the episode "What Time Does the Balloon Go Up?"
> 
> 2) Based on more recent research, it's clear more people (including German civilians) were aware of the extent of the atrocities against civilians, the Holocaust and other horrific actions committed by the German forces, their collaborators and the civilian population in occupied territories. Word came back from Poland early on, and from other areas of the Eastern Front. These witnesses passed on information to their families and friends, etc. It was not just the SS troops and the killing units who participated. Please check out posts in the book thread at the top of the Forum XVIII for more information. Also the United States Holocaust Museum website is a good resource. FDR, Stalin and Churchill were also aware of the mass murders. And remember, it did not start with murder. It began with a long process of dehumanization, laws, and people looking the other way.
> 
> 3) For an extended scene, see my companion piece s/8133476/1/At-What-Cost there is a significant plot device in "Tale of Two Cities," having to do with knitting.
> 
> The names Gage and Desoto were not picked out of thin air. These are the two main characters in the old TV show, "Emergency."


	6. Chapter 6

_RAMPS_

_Chapter 6_

There was a pause in the conversation as two orderlies dropped off a few extra chairs. In order to get some privacy, Kinch and Newkirk moved the curtains back around the bed, and then gratefully sat down. Knowing stress could worsen Hogan's condition, Kinch did not want to upset the colonel any further. Changing the subject away from their current situation was a good tactic. He saw an opening with Hogan's comment about Klink and the way he ran the prison camp, and decided to continue with this line of conversation. He gave Newkirk a small poke. Thankfully, the men had been together for so long, the corporal read Kinch's mind and took the hint.

"Right you are, sir," Newkirk said. "I wouldn't want him as a friend, after the war that is. But, for a Kommandant, well...he..."

"Was an easy mark," Kinch stated with a straight face.

Hogan smiled. "He kept his records straight. Good bookkeeper."

"It was easy to forge his signature," Newkirk said. "You're right. If you ask me, there were a lot worse."

"He had his moments. Good and bad," Kinch reminded them.

"Times he didn't stand up to the Gestapo," Newkirk said. "Although all's well that ends well," he quickly added.

"To quote one of my favorite authors," Hogan stated; "'Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear, not absence of fear.' That's Mark Twain. I think that Klink's fear often overrode his true feelings."

"I think you're giving him too much credit, sir. **"**

"We'll have time to ponder Klink's behavior, Newkirk." Not wanting to continue a philosophical discussion, it was now Hogan's turn to change the subject. "How is morale, Kinch? I forgot to ask."

"Fine, sir. Considering. Anyway, that's Newkirk's department."

"They're being kept busy. Just standing in line for the mess takes time and organization." Newkirk laughed. "In case you hadn't heard, they've got Germans servicing up grub."

Hogan frowned. "I hope the officers are maintaining discipline."

Newkirk shrugged his shoulders. "Well, I haven't heard of any major problems from our crew. There's been some name-calling and harassment, but as far as I know, it hasn't gotten out of hand. No worries. At any rate, the debriefing and paperwork is taking a while. Mostly, they're sleeping and writing letters. Oh, that reminds me…" Newkirk reached into his pocket and handed Hogan a packet. "Here's some writing paper. I didn't know if you had any."

The pad of paper Hogan was using was smaller. It worked for composing a short telegram, but it wasn't suitable for writing a letter. "Thanks. Put it there." Hogan pointed to the table next to the bed.

"There's another thing. How can I put this? I think they're finally starting to come to terms with everything."

"What do you mean, Newkirk?" Hogan asked.

"Well there's the shock, of course, of realizing how dangerous things really were, but they also understand what an incredible thing…they…we…everyone accomplished and pulled off. And they're proud. What will be hard is when they won't be able to talk about it. But now everyone is excited."

Hogan smiled, and then blinked back tears. Hearing what Newkirk described filled him with such pride and joy, he momentarily forgot his fatigue and pain for just a moment and let everything sink in. Kinch and Newkirk smiled as well.

"Colonel, if it's all right with you, I have to check in with the others," Kinch said.

"Go ahead, and thanks. Oh, and find McMahon and send him over. I want to speak with him."

The conversation came to a pause as Martin came out from behind the curtain. He nodded at Kinch, who headed for the exit. The doctor stopped at the edge of the bed, and stuck his hands in his pockets. "It looks like everyone's morale has lifted."

"Good. Morale is essential for good health," Hogan parroted. "So, that being said. I'm improving. Can I get out of here?"

Martin stared at the colonel for a moment. "I heard you were a con artist. From multiple reliable sources."

Newkirk held back a laugh. "I'll check on you later, sir." After leaving, he thought about Hogan's words, the issues in camp and what transpired after he and the others realized they had a serious problem on their hands.

* * *

_April 2, 1945_

_Luft Stalag 13_

"Hey. Hey. Break it up!" Newkirk pulled apart the two fighting prisoners. "What's your problem?" He glared at the two-one Brit and one American-who were in turn glaring at each other.

Crowley, the Barracks 17 chief, came running over. "I'll handle it." He strode up to the two men and got into their faces. "What is it this time? Gambling? Stealing? C'mon. Get inside and wait," he ordered. "This is the third fight this week on this side of camp," he told Newkirk as the crowd shuffled away.

"The camp is beginning to lose its charm, isn't it?" Newkirk, who was rarely without a clipboard, jotted down the names of the fighters. He pulled off the page and handed it to Crowley. "Can you see that McMahon gets this?"

"Sure. The camp. I'll tell ya, it's a powder keg. One-third of the men are on edge. One-half are depressed, and the rest are too hungry or sick to care. How's the colonel?"

"The same. I think if he could just stroll around and be seen, it would mean a lot."

"These men were more well-behaved when they were involved, if you get my drift," Crowley whispered.

"Yeah, well, that's about ended." Newkirk stopped the chief as two guards approached. "I've got to go, thanks."

"No problem." Crowley went into the hut and Newkirk continued his stroll around camp, stopping every so often to speak with department heads and chiefs before coming across Carter.

"Hey, mate! You look a bit better."

"Good to get out. Look at this." Carter quietly led Newkirk around the corner where they could see Schultz and a younger prisoner seated on a bench outside a barracks. The prisoner appeared upset. "Who is that?" Carter whispered.

"Don't know offhand."

"Come with me," they heard Schultz say. "I'll walk you back." The sergeant spotted Newkirk and Carter as he stood up.

"Everything all right, Schultz?" Carter asked as he and Newkirk approached. He looked at the prisoner. The prisoner's eyes were red.

"Yes, Carter. I have…" Schultz paused. "Everything under control. How is Colonel Hogan today?"

"He was sleeping when I checked. He seems the same."

Schultz's charge looked down at the ground and shuffled uncomfortably. "I see. Tell him I asked after him." Schultz gently grabbed the prisoner's arm and led the man away.

"Another one for the depressed column." Newkirk said. "Wonder why he didn't go to see the chaplain?"

"I hear he's sick as well. Besides, Schultz is kind of a father figure, you know. Or he could be your favorite uncle. Anyway, maybe he got bad news from home," Carter said in a tired voice. "No, wait. We haven't had mail for a while."

Newkirk shook his head. "I just broke up a fight, and I have another crying prisoner. Don't mention this to the colonel."

"I wouldn't think of it," Carter replied. "You know something else? Olsen is cringing every time he hears artillery or our planes fly over."

"Blimey, it's all gone to pot, hasn't it?"

* * *

When Carter and Newkirk returned to the hut, they were pleased to find Hogan sitting up in bed. He was attempting to keep down some hot broth LeBeau had prepared for him. "How is morale, Newkirk?" he asked after taking a sip of the weak liquid.

"Fine, sir." Newkirk stood by the bed, slouching a bit, his hands clasped in front.

"I can tell you're lying."

"Why would I lie to you, sir?"

Hogan tilted his head as Carter stifled a laugh. "Newkirk. Start talking or I'm getting dressed and going out to see for myself." Hogan put down the mug and began to remove the covers.

"No need to do that," Carter interjected. He glanced at Newkirk and then continued. "We've had some fights."

"And…"

"There's a…what's the word? A cloud hanging over the camp," Newkirk reluctantly admitted. "That's it. I'm sorry. I didn't want to upset you. You have enough problems."

"I'm not upset. I'd rather hear the truth then have everyone tiptoe around me like I'm a piece of china."

"That's an odd piece of imagery," Newkirk responded with a smile.

"Yeah, well." Hogan took a breath and coughed. "I can't give pep talks, but we can't have this. Not this close." A bang in the distance interrupted the conversation. Newkirk deliberately neglected to mention Olsen's apprehension.

"Oh, here's something that will cheer you up." Newkirk pointed at Carter. "This one went for a walk this afternoon. Said he felt a bit better."

"Is that a fact, Carter?"

"Um. Yes, sir."

"That's good. You have something for me, Kinch?" The sergeant was standing by the door.

"Latest news from the front."

"Hand me my bathrobe. I need to get up." Newkirk grabbed the bathrobe off the back of the chair and held it while Hogan stood up. He helped the colonel put it on. Hogan then waved him off and walked over to the desk himself, grabbing onto the edge for support and collapsing in the chair.

Newkirk exchanged glances with Kinch and Carter and then said, "I'll go get Wilson."

"I'm not dying. But go tell him to come over when he gets a break," Hogan said.

"Right away, sir," Carter said.

Newkirk and Carter both ran off, leaving Kinch and Hogan alone.

"Newkirk is acting, what's the word, too polite." Hogan sighed. "Sometimes I miss his cheeky backtalk."

"Well, no interesting missions, so no chance for him to complain about being volunteered."

Hogan let out a small chuckle at Kinch's description of his bunk mate and fellow team member.

* * *

Wilson showed up a few minutes later and Kinch left the office to give the colonel and the medic their privacy.

"You want to do what?" Wilson closed the door and removed his stethoscope from his medical bag. "Open your shirt."

"Go for a walk outside, Wilson. Someplace further than the latrine. Like around the camp. The entire camp."

"I don't think that's a good idea, although I do understand your frustration."

"What's up your sleeve, Wilson? You're being too polite. I…oomph."

"Hold that under your tongue. There's nothing up my sleeve. We're out of sulfa. I've had to reduce the daily calorie count again. Fifteen guards are sick. I cleaned the rec hall and then I added more beds. The good news is that LeBeau can start handling food again. I know why you want to talk a walk." Wilson removed the thermometer.

"You stuck that in deliberately. And I know about LeBeau. He managed to make some weak broth."

"I needed to take your temp," Wilson explained. "Unless you would rather do it the other way."

"Not a chance." Hogan buttoned his shirt. "Well?"

"You've improved since last week. So….I'll let you get dressed and take a walk around camp. Provided someone goes with you."

"I may hold off on your demotion yet, Wilson," Hogan joked.

"In that case," the medic answered, "I may consider putting you back on limited duty. In a few days. Provided you behave yourself."

"You want to come with me. For the walk?" Hogan asked as he began to take off the pajama shirt he had just buttoned.

"Here." Wilson opened the locker and handed Hogan a uniform. "No. It would not be good for morale if you were seen walking with a medic. Take someone from the barracks. Olsen. Take Olsen," Wilson suggested.

"Olsen? Yep. I'll take Olsen," Hogan murmured. "I hear morale isn't too good."

"They need to see you, sir." Wilson poked his head out the door. His quarry was on top of his bunk, his right arm flung over his face. "Hey, Olsen!"

The sergeant moved his arm, slowly rolled over and sat up. "What's up, Wilson?" Olsen was usually upbeat and gregarious. Today, it was clear to the medic that the sergeant was depressed.

"You and Colonel Hogan are going for a walk."

 _He's well enough to go for a walk_ , Olsen realized. "Um. Sure. Give me a minute to get dressed."

Wilson let out a small grin. "Not too far and take it slow," he told the sergeant. _This will do them both some good_ , he told himself as he left the building. For the first time in a while, he felt more optimistic about the dire situation in camp.


	7. Chapter 7

_RAMPS_

_chapter 7_

_Lucky Strike Camp_

_April 24, 1945_

_afternoon_

"Colonel?" Olsen poked his head around the curtain. Seeing the empty bed, he approached one of the other patients. "Where's the colonel?"

"Over there." The private pointed. "He's going for a walk with one of the nurses. Lucky."

"Oh. I see him. Thanks." It took little time for Olsen to catch up to the pair, as they were moving at a snail's pace, although from the looks of it, Hogan was not unhappy with his escort.

"Morning, sir. Lieutenant." Olsen said. "Good to see you up."

The pair stopped. The nurse, who had her arm wrapped around Hogan's left arm, loosened her grip, but still gave her patient some support. Olsen noticed that Hogan didn't argue.

"It feels good to take a walk, Olsen."

Olsen was adept at observation, and he had the ability to size up people and situations rather quickly. While in camp and outside the perimeter, this skill was a matter of life and death. He quickly assessed his C.O.

The colonel was wearing a bathrobe; his hair was trimmed and his nonchalant slouch-so often seen in the camp, especially when Germans were around, was not as pronounced. Olsen noticed Hogan was favoring one side a bit, but for the most part, he was relieved to see definite improvement.

The nurse flashed Olsen a brief smile. "Let's turn around Colonel Hogan and get you back to your bed."

"You're the boss." The pair, with Olsen trailing behind, swung around and continued their walk down the center of the ward, stopping every few seconds to greet the remaining patients. Hogan gingerly returned to his bed and waited for the nurse to prop him up. Once he was settled and the nurse left, he was ready to talk.

"Okay, Olsen. What's up?"

"Nothing, sir. Well nothing unusual. Talks with Colonel Wembley. Meetings with that general. A lot of waiting around."

"I warned you _your_ debriefing is going to take a long time," Hogan replied.

"Oh, they haven't even started that yet. That's not until you're better, sir, and we can get to London."

"So what's bothering you?"

"I didn't say anything was bothering me, Colonel."

"Olsen. You know I can read you like a book." Hogan folded his arms across his chest and gave the sergeant a look that meant business.

Both men quickly recalled a recent past interaction. The difficult times and hardships now seemed a lifetime ago, although it was just a few weeks prior to liberation that their brief walk around camp created a turning point-both in their relationship and camp morale.

* * *

_Luft Stalag 13_

_April 2, 1945_

It was slow going, but Hogan, with Olsen's help, continued his walk around the entire camp, taking a break every so often to sit on a bench. It was a nice day and most of the prisoners who weren't sick were outdoors. Immediately, groups of men from every barracks approached the pair as soon as they were spotted. They offered their good wishes and even the guards said a few kind words. In between greetings, Hogan and Olsen had time to converse.

"It's been a long time since we had a private talk." Hogan sat down on a bench outside the mess hall.

"Yes, sir. It has… I," Olsen gave a little start as the sound of distant artillery interrupted their conversation.

"Hey." Hogan put his hand on the sergeant's arm. "Easy. Why so jumpy?"

Olsen could now see the concern on Hogan's face.

"This is embarrassing," he mumbled as he looked down at the ground.

"I know operations are at a standstill, but who knows what will happen. We may have to fight for the camp. I can't afford to have a man who's jumpy," Hogan said quietly.

Olsen couldn't look Hogan in the eyes, and so he continued to stare at the ground. A few seconds went by.

"When was the last time you were out? I forgot. I've lost track of time," Hogan asked.

"About two weeks. When I got the last batch of supplies."

"I see. You know, when I was first given command of the 504th, I had just been promoted to Lieutenant Colonel." Hogan chuckled. "That night, I… Well, never mind where was I?"

"Promotion." Olsen grinned. "It's hard to think of you ever as being a major. Doesn't roll off the tongue right."

Hogan laughed. "No one's ever said that. Seriously, it's a big responsibility. Planning raids, briefing a lot of young men who are about to go up in planes that can explode from one lucky shot."

"But you went with."

"Yeah." Hogan got a faraway look in his eyes. "There were a lot of raids where I came back, and many of them didn't. I'm in the cockpit. And out of the corner of my eye I can see the flashes and hear the explosions. The sound of the planes that were hit; screaming as they fell." The colonel swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat.

"I remember," Olsen shuddered; then waited for Hogan to get to the point.

"The sound and the flashes of light. They stay with you. Certain noises. I still get flashbacks. The worst part was that I felt helpless. I'm hearing this and seeing this, and there wasn't one damn thing I could do about it. The first few times, I'd get back to base and inside I was a wreck. But eventually, I learned to separate my emotions from reality. I know I couldn't be a good commander otherwise, and I definitely couldn't continue to go out on raids. My point is; it's okay to worry and care. You hear the artillery, you're worried about Heidi, the Schnitzer's, and your relatives. But if you let it consume you, you'll end up in a bad place, and that won't do that much good, will it?"

"It just started all of a sudden. One day, with no warning." Olsen sighed. "Guess I was thinking about her, and then I heard something. How did you know?"

"You've been too quiet. That was the first sign. And you're not the jumpy or nervous type. We're entering another chapter in this horror story. And you have loved ones in the crossfire." There was no need to sugar coat it. When it came to risks and danger, Hogan believed honesty was the best way to treat those under his command.

"Not when I first got here." The memory of his capture and treatment still haunted the sergeant. It took time and a lot of care from the colonel and his friends in the barracks for Olsen to come to terms with what he saw and experienced. He still managed to compartmentalize this trauma, but this jumpiness was new. "I suppose." He looked up at the blue sky and then shrugged.

Hogan recalled Olsen's arrival at camp. He was a shell; withdrawn and traumatized. But, with help and perseverance, the sergeant became one of Hogan's indispensable operatives.

They both knew this. "You're one of the bravest men I've ever met." Hogan gripped the edge of the bench for support and stood up. Olsen followed. "I think I better get back before Wilson yells at me."

Olsen was momentarily stunned at Hogan's words; then recovered. "Thank you, sir. These next few weeks, you can count on me."

The colonel nodded and then said, "I've never doubted it."

* * *

_Camp Lucky Strike_

"So what's bothering you?" Hogan asked.

"What? Oh sorry. Can't put anything past you, sir."

"That's what I used to say to Klink. Pull up a chair."

Olsen grabbed the chair and placed it near the bedside. He sat down, leaned back and crossed one leg over another. "I need to find a way to get back. Once everything is over that is."

"It's going to be chaos over there. I can tell you that. And things have to be mopped up. It'll be months before all the troops get redeployed," Hogan explained.

"I figured. You think they'll let me back in?" Olsen asked.

"I haven't even spoken to the brass yet. They'll need translators and cultural liaisons. We need to work with these people. It won't be easy or pretty."

"I can handle it." Olsen's face showed determination.

"Hey, speak of the devil. Look." Hogan pointed at General Butler, who had entered the building.

"I think this would be a good time for me to check on something. Glad to see you feeling better, sir."

"Go ahead. Tell LeBeau to come by when he gets a chance."

"Will do." Olsen walked past the other beds, as he mumbled, "I'm outta here," to one of his friends.

"General," he saluted.

"Sergeant Olsen is it?"

"Yes, Sir.

"I see Colonel Hogan is feeling better?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good to hear." The general walked down towards the end of the ward. "How are you feeling, Hogan?"

"Honestly? Better than I did when I came in."

Butler sat down in the chair Olsen had just vacated. "Didn't expect you to admit that. I tried to get in here earlier but I couldn't get through the bouncers at the door. Although," he nodded in Olsen's direction. "I see your men have been here."

"The bouncers. Good one. These nurses are tough. My men were here to give short reports, not to ask questions. I'm sorry. I'll talk to the bouncers."

"No, it's all right. I've spoken with your doctor. Look, I'm heading back to London. Military Intelligence will stay and work with the men. We can do all of the debriefing there. Those would've been our plans for the most part. When you are ready, we'll just need information about your contacts and sabotage operations; minor stuff."

"l'm sure my men can help out with that. But still, there's a lot of information. I do have a favor."

"Go ahead."

"It's about two of my operatives. LeBeau and Olsen. First, I hate to have to bring LeBeau over to London and then delay his trip home."

"He's from, Paris, isn't he?"

Hogan nodded. "He's been there twice." Hogan didn't reveal the trip to save Tiger.

"I remember. That's rough. I'll see what I can do, but I can't promise anything. And Olsen?"

"That is a bit more complicated. He wants to go back after Germany surrenders."

"Hopefully sooner than later. Why?" Butler asked.

"He was my outside man, sir. It's a long story. But he has relatives and he wants to check on the dog handler. You'll need cultural attachés and translators."

"I can probably call in some favors for that one. And I'll speak with him in London."

"Thanks, sir."

"I'm sorry, General." A nurse approached. "You'll have to leave. I need to care for my patient."

"I'm leaving, Lieutenant. Hogan, I'll check on you later."

"No," Hogan protested. "Wait. Lieutenant." he told the nurse. "Hand me my bathrobe. We can finish our discussion. General, I'll walk you back. How far is it? I don't need anything at the moment. Get me out of here," he whispered to Butler. "I'm going stir crazy."

"Colonel Hogan, please sit down." Exasperated, the nurse turned to the general. "Sorry, sir. He doesn't follow orders very well."

Butler chuckled. "Hogan. I'm ordering to you to listen to the medical staff. Later."

Hogan tried to sulk, but knowing he was wrong, he couldn't help but smile.

"Feeling better, I see. You're more uncooperative. That's a good sign." She smiled back at him.

"Hey, Colonel Hogan!" A recovering prisoner yelled. "I wouldn't take that."

"Pipe down, Conrad." Hogan yelled back. "Oh cripes, not another shot."

"If you cooperate, I'll give you another sponge bath later on."

"Whatever you say." Hogan was chomping at the bit and he frowned. But, his tone was cordial. He knew when he was outnumbered.

"Try to get some rest," the nurse said as she shook her head. She finished her exam, made the colonel comfortable and then walked away, smiling as she left. She was experienced enough to know that while there was always a chance of a relapse, Hogan's complaints were a definite sign of improvement.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Regarding Olsen: my head canon gives him a German mother and an American father. He becomes very close to Oscar and his family and later falls in love with his niece. His history can be seen in my 2009 story, "The Outside Man." Briefly, he is familiar with the area and has a lot of relatives residing in Germany. His mother and sister left the country before Olsen and his father, but they managed to leave before the war. Olsen's treatment in the Dulag (they discovered his German background) plus what he witnessed after his capture traumatized him and he was indeed a shell of a man when he arrived at camp. You don't have to read the entire story to get to this part.


	8. Chapter 8

_RAMPS_

_chapter 8_

_April 10, 1945_

_Luft Stalag 13_

Hogan's appearance in the compound eight days earlier did everyone a world of good. Morale improved-both for the prisoners and the guards. The Germans knew the end was in sight, but they were frightened at the prospect of an uncertain future. Most of the guards respected Hogan, and they relied on the colonel and his men to keep everyone safe. Horrific rumors were circulating throughout town-as well as their barracks-and many of them feared retribution once the Allies arrived. They knew an untold amount of people were fleeing the east. Even POW camps were being emptied in advance of the Russians, and the roads heading west were swarming with refugees, escaped prisoners, those on forced marches and those who miraculously managed to survive hell on earth. Most of the guards came from the Hamelburg area, but there were a few with relatives in Berlin and the eastern part of the country, and they were terrified.

Neither Klink, nor Schultz, nor the other few officers remaining on staff had much to say that could assuage their fears. The guards began gauging their own prospects by trying to analyze the behavior of the prisoners' command staff. A few deserted, but most assumed the camp was safe from bombings and attacks, and they stayed put.

Corporal Langenscheidt was one of these guards. Like Schultz, he knew a lot more than nothing. He and Schultz had an unspoken agreement. They did not speculate nor discuss any of the funny and unusual goings-on in the camp and the area. Survival so close to the obvious end of their mutual nightmare was paramount. When Hogan took ill, Langenscheidt's state of mind deteriorated. And when Hogan walked around the camp with Sergeant Olsen earlier that month, Langenscheidt's mood lifted. He felt they were on an emotional roller-coaster. The health of the inhabitants fluctuated with the weather and the nearby fighting. One day you could be up, and a few days later, you were back in bed. He noticed Hogan and many of the other prisoners were in this category. The guards were not immune, and many were on sick call. Fortunately, Langenscheidt felt very hungry, but he was not ill.

He spied the medic, Sergeant Wilson, heading over to the low-numbered barracks. He called out and the American turned and offered the corporal a grin.

"How are you, Sergeant?" Langenscheidt asked. "You look tired."

"Very busy. Lots of running around." Wilson stifled a yawn and asked the quiet corporal the same.

Langenscheidt shrugged. "I'm on extra duty as we have more on sick call. But, we're managing." A large boom shook the camp. Wilson's cap went flying and Langenscheidt helpfully bent down and picked it up.

"Thanks." Wilson plopped it back on his head.

"How is Colonel Hogan today?"

"Heading over there right now to check. Some days are better than others," Wilson replied. He touched the guard's shoulder. "Things will be okay, son."

Langenscheidt offered the medic a shy smile. "Tell the colonel I asked after him, then."

Wilson nodded and headed for the barracks. He had recently put Hogan back on limited duty but steadfastly refused to allow him in the tunnel system. Hogan joined him outside and they spent some time enjoying the air and keeping a close eye on the other prisoners.

It truly felt like spring. Outside the fencing, flowers poked out through the brush, while birds chirped and native mammals rustled around the woods. The scene belied the carnage taking place throughout the country, and if you ignored the sounds of artillery, a person could mentally place themselves in another world. A world without fighting, surrounded by loved ones and the sounds of laughter.

"I need to get on the radio," Hogan argued.

"The last thing you need is to be down there with the dust, moisture and cold. So, unless we all need to get out of here, the answer is no. Not if you want to feel like you did last week."

Hogan looked up at the sky and sighed. He stifled a cough and then removed his cap. After running his fingers through his hair, he gave Wilson a look of complete aggravation.

"Here, sit here. Don't push it." Wilson pointed to a bench. Hogan took a seat and watched as Wilson plopped himself next to his patient.

Hogan took another look at the medic.

"You've lost weight," he commented.

"Everyone has." Wilson took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow.

"You're getting sick," Hogan said. "That was a statement, not a question," he added.

"Pass your messages on to Kinch and Baker, and then they'll pass them on, and so on and so on. No tunnel."

"You're changing the subject, Sergeant." Hogan turned his head and looked straight at the medic. "So, how sick are you?"

"I don't know. Honest. Just run down, I think."

Hogan remained quiet as he looked out at the compound. The few walks he had taken around the camp, he thought, had helped. His staff had informed him that there had been no reports of bad behavior over the last few days. Prisoners were spending more time inside their barracks, despite the nice weather, but Wilson explained that was to be expected. Lack of food and illness had slowed everyone down. It seemed to Hogan that if the camp was shot on film, it would be running on slow motion. Men were also complaining about forgetfulness and lack of clarity, another side effect of the stress. "You've been spending most of your time in the infirmary, for what? About, six weeks now."

"I live there," Wilson stated. "But you're right. I haven't spent any time in the mess. I haven't gotten any exercise for a while. It could be about six weeks, give or take. I think. What day is it?"

Hogan was shocked. "April 10th. You don't know?"

"I forgot. I wrote that on the reports this morning."

"How's Fiske and Anderson?" Hogan asked.

"Anderson came back earlier this week. Fiske seems immune to everything."

"Glassman and Tate?"

"Both are doing better."

"That's good to hear." Hogan stood up. "Let's go to the infirmary. You're going to tell Anderson and Fiske you're moving into my barracks. You'll stay in my office so you can have some privacy."

"What? Sir, that's unnecessary."

"That's an order, Sergeant. You're off duty for the next 36 hours."

"With all due respect, Colonel, you can't be serious."

"What goes around, comes around, Wilson." At this point, Hogan had no idea he would end up back in the hospital. For what it was worth, Wilson got some much-needed rest and fought off a major illness.

* * *

_Camp Lucky Strike_

_April 24, 1945_

_afternoon_

Hogan smiled at the memory of sending Wilson to bed. _Damn pillows_. He hated being propped up, although he knew if he moved the support, there would be hell to pay. He hated being pushed around by the doctors and nurses, not that he minded the nurses. Most of all, he hated being sick. "Can't get comfortable," he muttered. He tried leaning to one side. Then the other. That didn't work. And he was getting sore. And he was tired from not sleeping. Except for the first night when he had crashed, he was waking constantly. Hogan sulked for a moment, closed his eyes and then came to a realization that he was acting like an inappropriate role model. _I should demote myself_.

He perked up as he heard many of the patients rustling about and talking. The news worked its way up to his end of the unit; like a game of telephone, although this time, the message wasn't distorted as it made its way around the ward.

"Glassman is being released, Colonel Hogan." This came from the man in the bed directly across from him.

Hogan sat up and turned his head in the direction of the conversation. He smiled and sat up as he heard the congratulations and well wishes coming from the rest of the patients within earshot.

A short while later, Glassman-who was still dressed in hospital garb-showed up at Hogan's bedside. The colonel had propped himself up as best as he could. He smiled as he saw the young sergeant approach.

"Colonel Hogan?"

"Good to see you, Glassman. What's up?"

"Am I disturbing you, sir?"

"No. I'm just trying to figure out a way to get comfortable sleeping sitting up. Again. Sit."

"Been there," Glassman sat down. "I'm being released, sir. Just waiting for paperwork and and some clothes."

Hogan's face lit up. "So I've heard. That's great news, and earlier than I expected."

"Me, too. I never got a chance to properly thank you, sir." The sergeant said formally.

"Thank me for what?"

"I know what almost happened. Back at camp, I mean. And I remember. Not everything, but that one day you were there for hours, they said. I know, because you threatened to drum me out."

"Drum you out?" Hogan asked, confused. "Oh!" he chuckled. "The Yankees."

Glassman grinned. "Seriously. Sergeant Wilson told me you sat with me for hours that day." Glassman's face turned serious. "And then you got sick."

"Stop right there," Hogan ordered. "No one is guilty of getting anyone else sick. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

Hogan reached over to his end table and picked up a glass. He took a sip of water and put the glass back down. "Tell me. How long were you in the camp?" Hogan asked.

"Just over a year," Glassman replied.

"Did we ever use you for anything? Diversions, that sort of thing?"

"Once. I helped dig out a cave-in."

Hogan nodded. "Not too exciting. So life was pretty boring for you."

"Well…"

"Be honest." Hogan prodded. "I'd like to know."

"Most of the time. But there was the feeling. We all talked about it. The guys in the barracks did, I mean. It was kind of like being on a roller coaster. Where you're terrified, and getting this rush at the same time. Yeah, that's it."

"That's an interesting analogy. I can understand that. Oh, well look who's here. It's about time."

Glassman turned around and spied LeBeau heading their way.

"You've got more company, sir. Thanks for the talk. And try putting some pillows under your knees. Can I..."

"Go," Hogan stated.

Glassman gave LeBeau a small wave. He stood up and met LeBeau in the center of the ward.

LeBeau paused for a moment and shared a few words with Glassman, who headed back to his end of the unit. LeBeau then started speaking in French.

"Oh, mon dieu. I'm sorry," he apologized. "I've tried five times to get in to see you. First, you were sleeping." He began counting on his fingers. "Then the nurse said you were occupied. Then I got in, and then I got called away by a general. Then the doctor was with you; then you were sleeping. Yes, that's it. Here I am! Oh," LeBeau threw up his hands as a light snore escaped.

"Would you believe that? Why me?" LeBeau muttered as he stomped away.

Sure enough, Hogan had listened to Glassman and put a folded up pillow under his knees.

"Something wrong, Corporal?" A nurse stopped LeBeau a few beds away.

"No. Yes." He decided to stay. Why not? Considering it took this long to make it back into the building.

"I've tried to visit with Colonel Hogan many times, and every time something gets in the way. And now he's awake one moment and then..." LeBeau snored.

The nurse held back a laugh. "You're from his staff, aren't you?"

"Oui. He asked to see me."

"It's normal for patients to sleep a lot, especially in small bursts. Don't worry. He has made tremendous progress since he came in."

"In just three days!" LeBeau exclaimed, amazed. "I guess he needed to be tied down, figuratively," LeBeau smiled.

"Yes; and some care you didn't have at the camp. But you are most likely correct." The nurse was patient and she looked at LeBeau with the expectation that he would continue to get everything off his chest. She was correct.

"He did push himself too hard," LeBeau said. "Of course, he did that the entire time he was in the camp. A lot of responsibility. But, the last few weeks was horrible. First he got sick, then got better, and then got sick again. Oh, he was so sick…"

* * *

_Two days after Wilson had grounded Hogan; the colonel's fever spiked and could not be brought down. The healthiest residents of the barracks, ignoring the danger of catching the infection, took turns nursing Hogan around the clock: helping him to cough up phlegm, cooling his forehead, and encouraging him to eat. Private Hammond, one of the camp's first aid assistants, was monitoring Hogan's vital signs and reporting back to the infirmary, where Wilson and his team were up to their neck in sick patients and out of beds._

"At one point, for a short time, he didn't know where he was. And, Lieutenant, the worst part…I couldn't go in there."

"You were sick as well?"

LeBeau nodded. "I got hit with the stomach problems. So did Andrew. Sergeant Carter. He was on the staff as well."

"I've met him," the nurse recalled. "Chatty."

"That's him! We stood outside the colonel's door."

" _You two, away from the door and get into bed." Wilson, who had come by to check on the barracks, pointed. "You keeping food down?"_

" _Two days now, Wilson." Carter climbed up into his bunk._

" _LeBeau?" Wilson approached the corporal who just looked up at the medic and shrugged._

" _Wilson. I need to tell you something," LeBeau whispered. "The colonel is not doing well. If something happens, Carter and I…He needs to know we're here. Please."_

" _Are **you** keeping your food down?"_

" _Today, Wilson. Today's the first day." Louis sunk down on his bunk. "I'm being honest."_

"Carter was allowed in. He…"

"You had to wait another day?" The nurse interrupted LeBeau.

"One whole day. It was one of the longest days of my life." The corporal's eyes teared up at the memory.

"Obviously, he hung in there."

"Well at that point, we didn't know. But the medic called us in that next day, and I had to stand at the door."

" _Like I said, there's nothing I can do." Wilson wrapped up his stethoscope. "I've got the same problem in the infirmary. It's up to them. Even in the states, before we had penicillin, it's the same. The only thing in everyone's favor is that we were all reasonably healthy before this hit."_

" _What are the odds, Wilson?" LeBeau asked._

_Wilson said quietly, "I don't like to place bets." He placed his hand on LeBeau's shoulder, gave the corporal a squeeze and left the hut._

* * *

March 27, 1945

Luft Stalag 13

Listless, feverish, and in pain with every breath, Hogan came to the sudden realization that there was a good chance he was doing to die. The epiphany hit him in a rare moment of lucidity. He had no idea what time it was or what day it was, and there was a distant memory of him thinking he was actually back in England…Yes, that was it….At the moment, the room was empty. The voices coming from the common room appeared distant. If memory served him correctly, there were other men in the barracks who were sick. Miller, Garth, LeBeau and Carter.

Over two years of espionage and a freaking germ was going to kill him at the ripe old age of 39. Ironic, Hogan said to himself. It was almost laughable. But, he wasn't laughing. That would send him into a fit of coughing. He tried hard to remember if his affairs were in order. Yes, they all had wills. On file somewhere. At the base. No, that wasn't it. Letters to his family. The men knew where they were. Hogan tried to think. The operation, the camp… Despite how close the allies were, there was still danger. He had to get the men in here.

"Hey." Hogan attempted to speak, but his words came out in a croak. His second attempt worked and sent six men, including Wilson, flying into the room. Seeing Kinch, Hogan asked if someone was manning the radio. He was assured that the radio was being manned around the clock.

"We have to talk. Where's LeBeau?" he asked Wilson who had most of the men to wait by the door.

"Over there." Wilson pointed. "I don't want him in here yet, sir. But he's getting better," he quickly added, as he walked over to the bed.

"I may not make it." Hogan quickly squelched Wilson's reaction. "Stop. Listen. I think we've got weeks."

They're within ….miles."

"I know, Wilson. But that doesn't mean we're out of the woods. The Germans are getting desperate. Before I got sick, I heard there's a chance they may come in and try to evacuate the camp. March everyone out, or sanitize it. We're small. They could get away with it."

"Klink wouldn't allow that," Wilson argued, the other men backing up his assertion.

"Klink and the guards could end up in front of the execution squads if they don't obey orders," Hogan retorted. "Whatever happens, we can't allow it. And what's the story with Gestapo HQ in Hammelburg?"

"Still operating, sir. Hochstetter's movements are being tracked as much as possible," Kinch answered.

Hogan nodded. "Any sign, any at all. It's too late to order a full-scale evacuation. We'll run into German troops. But get out as many as you can. And if Klink decides to fight for the camp," he said weakly.

"We can take him, Colonel," Carter piped up. "I've got tricks up my sleeve."

"I know, Carter." Hogan, now exhausted, closed his eyes for a moment. He heard Wilson usher everyone of the room. "Wilson?"

"Yes, Colonel."

"They all know exactly what to do if something happens to me."

"I know." Wilson, a lump forming in his throat, picked up a wet, cool, cloth and placed it on Hogan's forehead. "One thing I have to say about you is that you are a good planner."

"Thanks. But we're so close…different problems."

"You'll make it," Wilson assured him. "Everyone will. I'm a good judge of character."

* * *

"So, he was making last minute arrangements?"

"We were afraid of what would happen to the camp. The Kommandant, Lieutenant. He was…" Louis thought for a moment. "He had a bit of humanity still left inside of him. But, he was not able to stand up to the SS or the Gestapo. We saw that multiple times. And definitely not if they had brought in personnel, and not without Colonel Hogan's help." He left it at that.

The nurse realized there was more to the story, but she didn't press it. The medical staff was informed before the men from 13 arrived that there was an unusual circumstance surrounding their captivity and they were not to ask any questions of their patients. The details, she realized, were on a need to know basis. She couldn't even venture a guess as to what made this group special. Except that they were in better shape than other patients. She surmised that they were fortunate to have decent captors and for some reason, a better supply of rations.

"There's always uncertainty in war," she stated.

"Oui, c'est la guerre."

"LeBeau? I thought I heard French."

LeBeau turned and smiled. "I'm sorry, did we wake you, Colonel?"

"No." Hogan shifted on the bed.

LeBeau hadn't seen an awake Hogan since the day they had arrived, and to his satisfaction, he noticed color was coming back into the colonel's face. "He looks much better," he told the nurse, as he moved towards Hogan's bed.

_Yes,_ LeBeau recalled. That day back at camp-he remembered it was March 27th-changed everything. It all depended on each sick individual. Who lived and who died. And at that point, nothing was certain.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: In the episode "Swing Shift," where Newkirk almost ended up as a guard, Klink went down to the local recruitment center to get more guards.
> 
> As I have mentioned previously, I do not have medical training; nor have I ever had pneumonia (thankfully-my one bout of bronchitis back in the early 90's was bad enough). I'm doing the best I can with the medical conditions, etc. But if there are any errors or misconceptions, please let me know and I will correct the text.
> 
> Thank you for the reviews. Please remember to check your private messages on ff.net


	9. Chapter 9

_RAMPS_

_Chapter 9_

_Luft Stalag 13_

_March 29, 1945_

Carter was playing solitaire. He had one eye on the cards laid out on the table and one eye on the colonel. He was so engrossed in his two tasks that he started when LeBeau opened the door and walked in.

"Sorry, I startled you, mon ami. I came to relieve you."

Carter glanced at his watch. "He's still asleep," he said as he followed LeBeau into the common room. "Where is everyone?" he asked, seeing the barracks was empty except for the two sick men who were in their bunks.

"Out working. All over the place." LeBeau walked over to his bunk. "Any change?" He asked as he grabbed a cloth, which he brought over to the sink. He quickly dampened it and headed into Hogan's office.

"It's been quiet," Carter answered through the threshold. "He finally fell asleep. Honesty Louis, last night I didn't think he was…"

"Andrew!"

"What's wrong?" Carter rushed over.

"His fever broke. Feel!"

Carter placed his hand on the colonel's forehead. "I think his breathing is better, Louis. I'm going over to the infirmary!"

"Go." LeBeau turned back to the colonel, who was still fast asleep.

Carter paused a moment to check on his two hut mates. He told them the good news and then hightailed it over to the medical hut.

Wilson's assistant was on duty when Carter knocked on the door and then walked in.

"Fiske, where's Wilson?"

Alarmed, Fiske put down the instruments he was sterilizing. Not wanting to disturb his patients, he walked over to where Carter stood. He immediately noticed Carter was out of breath. "He's in the rec hall tending to the patients over there. What's wrong? Is it Colonel Hogan?" he asked, dreading the answer.

"Yes. But, it looks good. We think his fever broke."

Fiske breathed a sigh of relief. "Go over to the rec hall and tell Wilson. I have to finish here. And make sure you let us know what happens."

"Will do, pal. Thanks." Carter then sped over to the rec hall.

Wilson grabbed his medical bag and followed Carter back to barracks. "Did you take his temperature?" The medic asked LeBeau.

"No, he's still sleeping. But his forehead is cooler."

Wilson walked over and watched the rise and fall of the colonel's chest. He bent down and gently put the stethoscope against it and listened for a moment. He motioned for Carter and LeBeau to go into the common room. "He sounds better. Don't disturb him. Call me when he wakes up."

"I'm going to find the others," Carter took off.

Wilson turned away from LeBeau, who noticed the medic wiping his eyes.

"You all right, Wilson?" LeBeau patted the medic on the back.

"Who me? Yep. This is been an emotional few weeks, that's all. Let me go check on the others while I'm here." He left the office and headed over to where the two newer patients were resting.

LeBeau walked back into Hogan's office. Not knowing what to do with himself and emotionally drained, but relieved, he began to straighten up the room.

"LeBeau?" Hogan whispered a few minutes later.

"You're awake! And we think your fever broke." LeBeau reached for the thermometer..

"I feel like… Oh, wait. I thought you were sick. Were you standing by the door?"

"I'm better, Colonel. Wilson said I could come in. Here, put this in your mouth, please. No one is here right now. Except for Goldman and Saunders. They're in bed with the stomach thing. But everyone else is out running the camp. Not that we can do it without you, sir," he said quickly. "But, we're managing. And Baker's on the radio. But it's been quiet today. Wilson was just here. Let's see. 98.8 That's much better."

"Why? What was it?" Hogan pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. "I have a vague recollection of thinking I was back in England, and then I was yelling pull up? I need to get up."

"No. Not until Wilson says it's okay. Let me get some water. Here."

"I thought I was on the plane."

"Yes. I heard that's what you said. How do you feel?" LeBeau asked, as he thought it was best to change the subject.

"Awful," Hogan admitted. "But not like this morning."

"That was yesterday." LeBeau took Hogan's empty cup, and placed it on the table.

"Yesterday?"

"Yes".

"I really thought…"

"It's over, sir," LeBeau said. "You beat it."

* * *

_April 24, 1945_

_Camp Lucky Strike_

"I've been here five times, Colonel."

"The sixth time is the charm then." Hogan smiled. "How are you doing?"

"Fine, sir. I was more concerned about you." LeBeau began to putter around the area, straightening the nightstand, and pouring the colonel some fresh water. "Ah, who brought you the flowers?" he asked. He checked the water in the small vase on the end table.

"I have no clue," Hogan replied. "I woke up and there they were. And to answer your next question, I'm hanging in there. But I'm going nuts in here."

"With all these nurses?"

"They wake me up to take my temperature." Hogan complained. "And they won't listen to me when I try to get out of here. Being in here isn't all it's cracked up to be, LeBeau."

LeBeau thought briefly back to when he was sick, and how, when he was on the mend, he felt he was going crazy from boredom. "No, I suppose not."

"I spoke to General Butler about you staying here. He can't make any promises. He may not have a choice in the matter," Hogan told LeBeau.

LeBeau shrugged. "I can wait," he said sadly.

* * *

LeBeau had developed a rapport with the nurse in Hogan's ward. They gave Hogan some privacy for a moment and continued their conversation.

"Oh, so that's when everything turned?" The nurse said. "His fever went down."

"Yes. That's what we thought," LeBeau answered. "The medic tried to convince him to leave with the first group out. But he refused. We practically had to tie him to the bed. It was scary, and he never really fully recovered. So here we are." LeBeau stopped talking for a moment, and then continued. "Actually he had a bad relapse right after liberation, but you know that part."

"Yes," she said. "That can happen and that's why we're so persistent with them. He keeps trying to sneak out of here you know."

LeBeau laughed. "I know. Ah, but you are too smart."

"I think deep down, Corporal, he knows we are right. Besides there are still twelve men in here and he has to set a good example. Oh, look. Here's the food."

LeBeau waited for the cart to come close to Hogan's bed. He stayed close by as the nurse handed Hogan a tray and got the colonel set up.

"I'll leave you two alone," she said. "It was nice talking with you, Corporal LeBeau."

"Lieutenant." LeBeau smiled at the nurse.

Hogan folded his arms across his body. "Well, LeBeau. Looks like you two hit it off."

LeBeau turned his head and watched approvingly as the lieutenant continued on her rounds. "Yes, I have to admit that we did. Now, let's see what we have here." As LeBeau moved the tray over, he started to take the cover off the plate, but was stopped in his tracks by the colonel.

"As your commanding officer, LeBeau, I can't let you look at this."

"Let me see." LeBeau lifted the cover and shivered. "I shouldn't have done that, but you need to eat it." LeBeau looked at his watch. "I'm supposed to meet everyone at the mess."

Hogan picked up his fork and began to move food around the plate. "Mess. That actually sounds good."

"It's not really," LeBeau stated. "We've got special diets there as well."

"Well, don't let me stop you. Go have dinner, LeBeau."

"I will be back as soon as I can, Colonel." LeBeau left Hogan to his dinner and headed off to the mess.

Shortly afterwards, Hogan, now seated on a chair by the bedside, got another visitor.

"Wembley!" Hogan stood up and warmly shook the British colonel's hand.

"Hogan old chap. Glad to see you up and about. Sit." As Wembley grabbed another seat, he spied a book on the nightstand with a bookmark marking a page. "What are you reading? _A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court_. That's a good one."

"Yeah, the Red Cross brought it over. I'm trying to keep busy."

"So, Hogan. Lets have a look at you. What has it been? Almost a year?"

"Yes. Right before D-Day. About that. How's your wife?" Hogan asked.

"Smashing. So, you gave us quite a scare you know."

"Scared myself. Scared for everyone else," Hogan groaned. "What a way to end this thing."

"You were there when the tanks rolled in. You always told me that's what you wanted."

"Good point," Hogan conceded. "So, is this a social call or official business?"

"Both. We're heading back tomorrow. There's nothing more for us to do here. The processing is moving along. There will be a troop ship coming in soon. They're supposed to be leaving for Southhampton and then the United States on April 28th."

Hogan looked relieved. "So I should be able to see the men beforehand."

"We'll ship the American boys back soon. The rest from the continent; they'll stay here until it's safe, depending where they're from. The rest of you..." Wembley reached into his pocket and removed a typed sheet. "Here's the final list. They'll come over to London with you when you're cleared." Wembley handed Hogan the paper. Unfortunately, you'll be staying quite a bit longer. But, we will get everyone home as soon as its feasible."

"LeBeau's on here," Hogan noted in a disappointed voice.

"That couldn't be helped, I'm afraid. So tell me; what's your prognosis?"

"Prognosis? You're a ghoul!" Hogan laughed; then coughed. Wembley handed him a glass of water. After a few sips, the cough subsided.

"Wrong choice of words. I meant time frame. Any idea?"

"No," Hogan replied in a frustrated tone. "They say I'm improving. I feel better. But they're keeping me a prisoner in our own hospital. Some of the other boys are still in here. They were sick at the same time I was."

"You should see some of the others that have come through this camp." Wembley shook his head. "You're all damn lucky."

"So I've heard."

"There's more. But that can wait for London. So, tonight they're bringing in more movies. A double feature. A western and a musical. I love musicals! I think I'll go," Wembley said in that jovial tone that Hogan got to know so well.

"Really?" Hogan laughed. "I didn't know that about you."

"Well, yes. I'm quite a hoofer, if I do say so myself," Wembley rose from the chair and did a quick time step. He bowed at the smattering of some nearby applause. "You can ask my wife when you meet her."

"I'd love to go for a spin on the dance floor myself. Say how did you get here?" Hogan asked.

"Jeep. Why?"

Hogan quickly rose from the chair and opened the drawer in the nightstand. He then pulled the curtain around his area.

"Hogan, what are you doing?" Wembley hustled over, hoping to forestall whatever nefarious plan the colonel had up his sleeve.

"Changing," Hogan stated. He pulled off his bathrobe and started unbuttoning his pajama shirt.

"You're certifiably insane."

"I'm going insane. Drive me to the hangers." Hogan took off the shirt and then pulled out a clean uniform shirt.

"They'll discover you're missing."

Hogan snapped his fingers. "I'll get the rest of the guys to start a diversion. They're good at that, you know. They've had lots of practice."

Wembley couldn't help but laugh at that quip; but then he began to panic. "I'll tell, Hogan. And I'm not driving you."

"Aha!" Hogan pointed at the Brit. "You do think I can get away with this. Besides, I outrank you."

"Yes, but not by much," Wembley pointed out.

"You dropped Crittendon on us," Hogan countered.

"That wasn't me!" Wembley then raised his voice. "I won't let you do this," he said to Hogan, who by now was trying to put on his boots.

There were a few orderlies and nurses hanging around the closest exit. But Hogan noticed a clear path to another exit, which was at the other end of the ward. The colonel opened the curtain and started to walk-albeit slowly-out of the hospital.

An ambulatory prisoner a few beds down hustled over and tentatively blocked the colonel's way. "Going somewhere, sir?"

"Cover for me, Madison." Hogan stepped around the sergeant.

Madison gulped. "I'm sorry, sir...but..." He spied the British colonel and Madison's eyes pleaded with the man for help.

"Go back to your bed, Sergeant. I'll take care of it." Wembley had to admit that Papa Bear had chutzpah. "Honestly, how far do you think you'll get?" he whispered to the colonel. Hogan's stubbornness and guile intrigued Wembley, and he was almost willing to see how far he would actually go.

"Just look like you know where you're going and what you're doing, and you can get away with almost anything. Worked for us more than once in Ger…" Hogan stopped dead in his tracks, as a portable curtain surrounding a patient opened, and he came face to face with Lieutenant Gage and Maddox.

The nurse frowned. "Where are you going, Colonel Hogan?"

"Out for some air, Lieutenant," he replied to the nurse.

"Fully dressed?" Maddox groaned. "Lieutenant, see that he gets back to bed," he ordered. "Colonel Wembley. Please leave. You..." He pointed to the other patients, who were holding back laughter. "Be quiet." The men did quiet down, but they kept an ear open for any further developments. Maddox winked at Hogan before he let the nurse take charge. Then Gage made sure the colonel followed orders.

"You are not setting a good example for the other patients," she told the colonel as she pulled the curtain around his area so he could get changed.

Hogan thought back to all the odd plans he devised when he was in camp. Frequently, no one thought he could pull them off. Some were so outrageous that even he had doubts. But, for whatever reason, they survived. Maybe he was not the usual role model. But, no one would argue that they weren't thrust into unusual circumstances. He had certainly changed since his time at the 504th. For the better, he realized. He smiled at the nurse. "I apologize, Lieutenant. I've been so used to giving orders, that in some circumstances, I often find it difficult to follow them."

"I accept your apology." Gage smiled back. "Wait for the doctor and please be reasonable."

"I would so like to see you out of here." Maddox said this to Hogan a few minutes later.

"Fine, then. When can I go?" Hogan said as he reluctantly began changing back into his pajamas.

"How did your medic put up with you in camp?"

"He didn't have to. I didn't really get sick until before right before we were liberated."

"Let me have a deep breath," the doctor asked as Hogan coughed. "These things don't get better overnight. I'll order another x-ray for tomorrow morning. Please make a note of that, Lieutenant," he said to the nurse.

"I've been here three days. I haven't seen the men."

"They're quarantined."

"Come on. You saw me when I came in," Hogan argued. "Look, I walked halfway down the aisle without falling over."

"I'm genuinely sorry. A touch of pneumonia, which is what you had when you walked in here, usually takes time to clear. Relapses can come back worse. Now, I know this relapse isn't as bad as we feared, but I don't want to have to write a letter to your mother. Your men aren't going anywhere. They'll be here a while longer. They have to wait for a troop ship. Most of them are American, I take it?"

"It's a mix, but yes," Hogan answered.

Maddox nodded. "You'll get to see them. Sooner rather than later, I hope. But that depends on you."

"Thanks." Hogan leaned back on his pillows and folded his arms across his chest. Now tired, and with nothing much else to do, he grabbed some paper and began writing some letters.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHOR'S NOTE:
> 
> for various resources, please see: www . archives . gov / research / alic / reference / military / ww2 . html
> 
> I put in a lot of research time on troop ships and their movements. This is the best fit.
> 
> General M. C. Meigs
> 
> "General M. C. Meigs deployed troops to Panama and Puerto Rico from 25 March to 7 April before departing New York 16 April to carry troops to Le Havre, France. There she embarked homebound troops 28 April, sailed for the United States 30 April via Southampton, England, and reached Newport News 14 May. Between 22 May and 14 June she steamed to Naples and returned to Newport News with 5,100 veterans. Sailing again 23 June, she transported occupation troops to Naples, where she then embarked Brazilian troops 4 July and sailed the 6th for Rio de Janeiro. She reached Brazil 18 July and steamed to Baia [sic; Bahia] and Recife, Brazil, before arriving Newport News 12 August. Between 23 August and 17 September she cruised to Naples and returned additional troops to Brazil."
> 
> history . army . mil / documents / WWII / wwii _ Troopships . pdf


	10. Chapter 10

_RAMPS_

_Chapter 10_

_April 24, 1945_

_Barracks 2 staff tent_

_Camp Lucky Strike_

"I thought once we got here we'd get better food," Carter complained as he pushed his dinner around the plate in an attempt to make it appear more palatable. The attempt failed.

"They changed the diet in the mess halls again. Eat it." Wilson pointed at Carter's plate. The medic's plate was almost empty. After all, he had to set a good example.

"The Red Cross used to greet the new guys at the airport with donuts." Olsen looked at Carter's plate. "You going to eat that?" Carter shook his head. Olsen grabbed a piece of bread.

"Someone still has a good appetite." Kinch grinned.

"This is poison." LeBeau muttered a curse as he pushed his plate away. "The colonel's dinner did not look much better."

"We all had it too easy." Wilson dipped his fork into some mashed potatoes. "Especially when you shared your expertise with the rest of us, LeBeau."

"Bah." LeBeau did not realize he imitated their nemesis. No one knew what happened to Hochstetter. Like many, he disappeared before Allies entered the area. "My work was often not appreciated." He glared at Newkirk.

"What you looking at me for, Louis? I ate what you put in front of us."

"Grudgingly. You complained. British palates." LeBeau shook his head. "I hope the rest of the camp did not resent my cooking for our barracks; they did not get the same ingredients."

"To be honest, LeBeau. No one really complained. First of all, it wasn't every night. People who didn't know any better thought you all ate gourmet meals all the time. We always set them straight." This explanation came from Sergeant McMahon, who had joined the crew for dinner after helping them with paperwork. "And once we explained the extra risks you all took, they were fine with it. At least I think they were."

"Well, we definitely ate better when we had to work one of Klink's dinners for visiting bigwigs," Carter explained. "And when we had a chance to go outside."

"I don't remember any altercations centered around the food issue. Colonel Hogan made sure everyone had enough to eat. Especially when he told Klink in no uncertain terms that he knew the guards were stealing our Red Cross packages. At least we weren't starving. Actually, I think I made out the best." Olsen dipped his bread in some bland liquid congealing on his plate. "Frau Schnitzer is a good cook."

"And Heidi?" Kinch poked Olsen.

The Outside Man just smiled.

McMahon raised his eyebrows. The meteorologist got up from his seat, walked outside and cleaned off his plate, dumping what little he had left into the garbage. "We should take these dishes back."

"Agreed," Kinch said. He gave Baker a look; a look not missed by the rest of the men.

"You want us to take your stuff over?" Carter asked them quietly. "While you do more work," he continued. He immediately regretted his innocent suggestion, as the sergeants' demeanor briefly changed. The self-conscious look on their faces disappeared as quickly as it arrived.

Newkirk glared at his friend. "What is wrong with you mate?" he asked him quietly. "Don't 'ave to remind them." Recently, Newkirk sometimes dropped back into a thicker Cockney accent, dropping his 'h's and sometimes making it difficult for strangers to understand him. He chalked this up to stress.

Carter immediately regretted his comment. "I'm sorry, fellas."

"It's okay, Andrew," Baker stated. "I know you got our backs."

Chagrined, Carter tailed behind the group as they left their lodgings and headed over to their designated mess hall. _What is wrong with me?_ Carter shuffled along, kicking himself mentally. _Why can't I just keep my mouth shut?_ The last thing he wanted to do was embarrass his friends and remind them of the injustice they faced every waking moment. Things were uncertain enough at this point. They were all facing change and adaptation. It was obvious while they waited for liberation, and it was more obvious even now. _I'm lucky I'm not seen as anything other than a young white man._ Many of Carter's relatives weren't so fortunate.

Thankfully, the staff made its way to the mess without any incident.

The line of waiting men spilled out of the building, snaking around the area in an organized and somewhat subdued fashion. Kinch looked approvingly at the group, which despite their unusual circumstances, seemed to be both well-behaved and a bit subdued. Most of the men were either lost in their own thoughts or holding quiet conversations with their friends.

"Still not ready to run a marathon?" Kinch commented to the barracks chiefs standing off to the side. The men-a mix of nationalities-were clearly watching the proceedings, ready to step in and maintain control if necessary.

"Not anytime soon." Rogers, the chief from 12, was one of the supervisors. "We're all still in a bit of a shock. The adrenaline wore off." Rogers, while young, was a student of behavior and a natural leader. One of the men from his barracks handed the sergeant a plate. "Thanks," he answered as he moved aside. He leaned up against the wall and began to eat. "They are getting antsy inside the hangars," he commented. "We don't have the run of this camp like the others do."

"Well, there are sections, actually. But the camp is so large, they do have some space to maneuver," Kinch explained. He frowned. "I'm not sure what we can do. We're under strict quarantine orders. Like they explained when we all got here."

Carter and Wilson offered to take their utensils and dishes back into the mess hall. They were dismayed to see that men were still eating standing up.

Wilson sighed. He spied his assistant, Anderson, walking around, checking on the men and offering some much needed advice.

"Slow down," he heard a frustrated Anderson say to a group wolfing down their food as if they feared it was their last meal. "You'll get sick. Told you all that when the tanks rolled through the gates. You forget?" He shook his head. "Told you all this stuff when you arrived."

"Lots been going on since then," a British corporal responded. "Questioning, paperwork, checkups, more paperwork. Hard to keep straight. Our brains weren't working up to par, you know."

"Malnutrition," said another soldier. "Doctors and nurses told us so."

"Well, you've had more than four days to put some weight back on," Anderson stated. He spotted Wilson and silently pleaded for help.

Wilson was happy to see Anderson looking better. His trusted second came down ill in camp and was quarantined for a while. As the young man spotted him, his eyes betrayed his exasperation. Wilson immediately walked up to the food line and cupped his hands. "Hey," Wilson said in as loud a voice as he could muster. "It's not like you're eating your mom's home cooking! Follow the instructions."

A man at the head of the line, trying very hard not to give the German serving him any verbal grief, answered. "Sorry, sarge. It's a force of habit," he explained.

"Yeah, those last few weeks in camp, we thought we were having our last meal," said another.

"Pass my instructions down the line and around," Wilson ordered. "And obey Anderson and the other people who are here to help you, or there will be hell to pay." He nodded at the small group of officers standing by the condiment table and then walked through the building, having small conversations with those either eating or waiting in line.

A few of the officers were long-time residents of the camp. On occasion, a captured officer ended up in Luft Stalag 13, and hearing about the operation, volunteered to stay behind. Most were newer captives, sent in after the invasion and caught mainly after the Battle of the Bulge. Hogan had anyone causing trouble transferred to an Oflag. Those needing to be sent home for legitimate reasons found their way to an escape route after the transfer was sabotaged.

LeBeau maneuvered his way over to the officers and spoke a few words with Claude Boucher, who was standing with both the chaplain and Captain Warren. The French lieutenant was captured, sent to Klink's camp, and interrogated by Hochstetter, who lied to him about his fiancée's infidelity. In order to save Boucher from himself-so he would not divulge any secrets after feeling hopeless-the heroes brought Suzanne over from Paris, where Klink swallowed Hogan's con hook, line and sinker and married the two during a play.

Warren was recaptured after being betrayed by two German women pretending to handle a stop on the escape route. He mulled over his choices and thought it best not to take any more chances. After all, he told Hogan, you never know when he'd need another pilot. The chaplain, Lieutenant John Waverly, was sent to the camp with Wilson, after both were captured in the African campaign.

Despite arguments from intelligence, all of these remaining officers volunteered to bunk with the enlisted men at Lucky Strike. They refused special treatment, and did their best to keep everyone calm and in check.

The two Frenchmen kept their voices low. "I'm probably going back to London," LeBeau, speaking French, told Boucher.

"That's not fair," Boucher said as the two moved off to the side.

LeBeau shrugged. "That's war. I don't think it will be too long. And it will help my friends if I'm there."

Boucher nodded. "You're a good man, Louis. I want you to be at my real wedding when things settle down. All of you, if possible. Boucher's "wife" was safe. She waited for him in England until Paris was liberated, and then returned to France.

"Guess what I discovered?" Olsen asked the crew after they left the mess area and began walking back to their tent.

"What?" Newkirk lit a cigarette and stared into the distance. The camp was so big, he could only see a small part of the layout.

"A gift shop."

"You're joking." Carter poked him.

"Nope. Each section has one. Found it by accident when I was poking around."

"You were poking around! What if you were caught? We aren't supposed to leave the area." McMahon sighed.

"I'm not getting involved," Wilson chuckled, as he started to walk away.

"Caught? Me?" Olsen started to laugh. "Good one. Unlike some of you, I was never caught." There was silence as the four members of the core team glared at the sergeant. "Or in two armies at the same time."

"Don't remind me," Newkirk replied. He had the distinction of being recruited for the German army.

"I never did see that Betty Gable picture," Carter mumbled as he silently recalled the time he was shuttling back and forth between a German unit and camp.

"Well, Olsen, you're doing better than Colonel Hogan. He keeps getting caught trying to leave the hospital."

Wilson turned. "LeBeau, what did you say?"

"He's right, Wilson," Baker agreed. "I heard it from some of the fellas stuck in there with him. A few were able to get some fresh air. That's when I heard."

Carter broke in. "I heard it from an orderly. He keeps trying to con the nurses." He chuckled. "He even asked General Butler to get him out of there, and he almost got Wembley to help him out."

"Why am I the last one to hear these things? Oh, for crying out loud." Wilson turned and began walking in the direction of the hospital.

Newkirk caught up to the medic and grabbed his arm. "I think the problem is that the guv'nor is afraid he won't be able to speak to the rest of the men. Yeah, I'll bet you that's the real problem."

"Maybe we can do something about that." Wilson resumed walking and then turned around. "You all following me?"

"We're all bored. Remember?" Carter answered.

"I want to see the fight," Baker added.

"He's probably sleeping. It's getting late." Carter looked at his watch. "No it's only 7."

"Using civilian time, already, Carter." Kinch gave him a friendly poke in the arm.

"Never too soon to get into practice," LeBeau answered for the tech sergeant.

"I couldn't really blame the colonel for his actions in camp," Wilson noted. "He was really too sick to know better, I suppose. And he was still in combat mode. But here? I had higher hopes for his behavior. But then again, aside from some minor illnesses, I never had to deal with him in this way before."

"From what I've heard, he was never a problem before he was shot down. Even when he was really hurt," Kinch said. Still nervous about walking around in the open with their unit, he and Baker warily kept an eye out for MP's.

* * *

Hogan sat on the edge of his bed and groaned in frustration. He stifled a cough and mused upon his predicament. What he had told the doctor had been correct. He had never been that sick in camp. One bout of the flu, which was relatively minor, and the occasional cold was all that he had suffered. That was it. He and Wilson had a good working relationship. I And despite his behavior, Hogan was used to doctors and accustomed to being poked, prodded and tested. And he was unfortunately familiar with hospitals. Pilots were constantly checked and rechecked. There were frequent health examinations; that was no secret. And he suffered the occasional injury due to bad landings, shrapnel that found their mark, and some burns.

"Do you want to go for a short walk, Colonel Hogan? You don't have to stay in bed all the time, as long as a medical staff member is with you."

Hogan looked up at the nurse. "Yes." He reached for his robe and then changed his mind. "No. Never mind. I'm tired."

"Oh." The nurse looked surprised. "Well then. Let's make you comfortable."

Yeah, he was tired. And as night fell, his symptoms worsened. He admitted to himself that he was still not one hundred percent. Frustrated by not being in control, he closed his book and put it on his nightstand.

It took Wilson and his entourage a good 20 minutes to safely maneuver their way through the crowded section of the base and over to the runways where the medical units were located.

"You think they'll let us all in at once, Wilson?" Carter eyed the guards and orderlies exiting the building and got nervous. "It's late."

"Doubt it. But it's worth a shot."

"You go first." Kinch held open the door for the medic who entered.

There was a nurse seated at a desk by the entrance. "I need to see Colonel Hogan," Wilson told her. The nurse glanced at the seven men standing behind him.

"What is this, Sergeant Wilson? A convention?"

"We're concerned." Wilson lowered his voice. "Heard he's been giving you some problems."

She put down a chart. "So you think you can set him straight?"

"It's worth a shot, Ma'am."

"He said he was tired. But I'll see if he is up for visitors. Although this is a bit unorthodox."

"We are actually here to visit the rest of the men in our unit," Kinch coughed. "We have updates."

The nurse gave in. Everything about these men from that camp was unorthodox. But she knew not to ask questions. "Yes, I'm sure you do, Sergeant Kinchloe. Wait here." The nurse left.

"Colonel? Are you up for visitors? I can send them away if you wish."

"No, don't send them away." Hogan told the nurse as he straightened up. "Send them over."

"Ten minutes," the nurse told the men, who thanked her.

Wilson was the first one to approach the colonel's bed.

"Hi, sir."

Hogan stared at the medic. "You picked up some strays along the way."

"I headed over this way and they followed." Wilson pulled the curtain around the bed.

"It's a bit crowded in here," Hogan said as the men shuffled around to make room for one another. LeBeau perched on the edge of the bed, while Carter created a small space on the nightstand and leaned against it. "Baker. How are you doing?"

"Fine, sir. Busy with paperwork."

"He's been a big help." Kinch added.

"McMahon. I hope this bunch isn't corrupting you."

"We're fine, Colonel." The sergeant and the former MOC smiled. "Besides, I've been too busy to be corrupted. And we're still on for tomorrow for that meeting you wanted?"

"Yes. 0900. Good. Now you obviously all didn't trek over here for the evening to play checkers. What's up?"

Newkirk poked Wilson in the ribs.

"Ahem. I heard you've been attempting to fly the coop." Hogan remained silent, but his crossed arms gave everything away. Wilson noticed the body language and quickly continued. "I know you are frustrated, but you're smart enough to understand what could happen if you don't take it easy and let this run its course."

"I know," Hogan said quietly.

"And this isn't like you. I think there is more going on here besides boredom," Wilson added.

"And you've got us worried," Carter said. "At first it was funny but…"

"Carter. Stop. You're right." Hogan looked at Wilson, as he lowered his arms. "All of you. Go visit the other guys. Wilson. You stay." Wilson nodded and the other men left.

"Pull up a chair, Joe."

"What was that all about?" Newkirk looked at Kinch, as they paused in the aisle. Kinch was as confused as the rest of them. He shook his head.

"I think we may have all been on the same page, including the colonel." Olsen, like the rest of the main team, knew Hogan pretty well. They began slowly moving away from Hogan's area, and began visiting with the other men.

"I have never had my command taken away from me," Hogan told Wilson. "Ever. And it's happened twice in the past two months." Hogan snapped his fingers. "Like that."

"You haven't been removed from command, sir. And the last time, with all due respect, you weren't able to function. You know I had no choice."

"I've lost control," Hogan countered. Over the men, over these proceedings, over everything, over myself." He actually realized he was blinking away tears.

"Permission to speak freely?" Wilson asked.

"Yes. Go ahead. But you don't have to be so formal."

"Shouldn't you be having this discussion with your team? Kinch, maybe?"

"No. Because they'd fawn over me. Maybe not be as candid. We are too close. You." Hogan pointed at the medic. "You can."

"Want to leave it as a medical thing? Or see a psychiatrist?" Wilson asked.

"Sure. But, no to the psychiatrist. They have their hands full with the men liberated from the other camps and marches. Damn. Hang on." Hogan coughed a few moments. "It gets worse at night. Just like my colds when I was a kid. Ironic."

Wilson poured a glass of water. Hogan took a few sips and handed it back. The medic set down the glass and began to talk. "Now I think I understand where you are coming from. You've worked by the seat of your pants, taking orders-sure-but mainly running the show. And now it's like you're back in basic training, being told what to do, where to go, when to do things. We're all in the same boat. It's been quite a shock for everyone, when you think about it. Of course there's no one standing around with machine guns."

"You're not making me feel any better, Wilson."

"But, look! Things _are_ under control, because you were and are great at delegating. Couldn't have pulled off what we did if that wasn't the case. Everyone is pitching in and behaving themselves."

"Well, I'll tell you..." Hogan said. "Sitting around doing nothing is going to kill me."

"No, it's not. You need to be needed. Aha." Wilson stood up. "That's your problem."

"That's not it. I'm desperate."

"No you're not. The nurse told me you admitted you were tired. Colonel. You're usually smart enough to know when to quit. But right now you're being too stubborn for your own good. Wait. Let me rephrase that. I'm not talking about your planning capers and operations. I'm talking about your health."

"You're right. I _should_ have talked with Kinch. He'd be more polite."

"Should I leave?" Wilson asked, although he was secretly pleased at Hogan's irascible behavior. It showed improvement in his condition.

"No. You ever wait for a certain moment, Wilson? And then it goes up in smoke."

"More than once." The medic found a clean cup and poured himself a glass of water. He took a few sips and waited.

"Bingo. Here it is," Hogan stated.

"We all have to be flexible in wartime. At least you're alive." Wilson let out a small smile and then his face became serious. "Honestly, I was afraid we were going to lose you back in March."

"I know." Hogan and Wilson paused in reflection; both men knowing they would be haunted with these memories for a very long time; both knowing they and everyone else under the colonel's last command were very fortunate.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Boucher was featured in the episode "Reverend Kommandant Klink." Warren's appearance was in the episode, "The Flame Grows Higher." Newkirk ended up in a German uniform for real in "Swing Shift." Carter was in two armies at once in "One Army at a Time."
> 
> My OC, Chaplain Waverly', first appeared in my 2009 story, "He Who Saves a Single Life, Saves the Entire World."


	11. Chapter 11

_RAMPS_

_Chapter 11_

_March 29, 1945_

_Luft Stalag 13_

"Colonel. You awake? I'd like to check you out."

Hogan turned his head and, through his haze, realized that Wilson was standing by the bunk. "I'm not dead?"

"No, sir. Your fever broke."

"I vaguely recall someone saying that. Is everyone else all right?"

"Haven't lost anyone." Wilson unbuttoned Hogan's shirt, and warmed up the stethoscope. "We've been extremely lucky," he said as he placed it on Hogan's chest. Once he finished, he helped his patient sit up, propping the pillows behind him.

After a few moments, Hogan realized he could think a bit more clearly. "Can we hold out? Oh, I need a report. I don't even know where the front is," he told Wilson.

"We'll get that information to you. Everything is under control. Don't worry. I know that's your job, but you have to concentrate on getting better. You're still very sick," the medic reminded the colonel.

* * *

_Camp Lucky Strike_

_April 24, 1945_

_evening_

"Colonel? You there?" Wilson gently shook Hogan's shoulder.

"I'm here. I lost my train of thought."

The nurse poked her head around the curtain. "You need to wrap it up, Sergeant."

"Thanks," he answered. "I'll l be right out."

Hogan grabbed Wilson's shirt. "I need to see the men before they leave. I owe it to them."

"That shouldn't be a problem." Wilson pulled an envelope out of his pocket. "Kinch gave me the latest orders. Don't quote me on this, but we just missed the last troop ship. That left two days ago. There's another one coming. The Brits will go back with us. So hang in there."

"Yeah, Wembley mentioned another one is on its way." Hogan grabbed the envelope.

"I assume you'll stay put." Wilson gave the colonel a stern look.

"Go. And tell the guys I'll try and behave myself," Hogan told him. He watched the medic leave and then waited for whatever came next. That was his current lot in life and it was the routine for more men than he could count. The least he could do was try and set a good example.

Wilson met the rest of the men in front of the building.

"He hasn't gone crackers, has he?" Newkirk was the first to badger the medic.

"No. His behavior has been perfectly reasonable for someone used to always being in control. But our conversation was confidential."

"Is he going to be okay, Wilson?" Carter asked with concern.

"I think so. And I gave him the orders, Kinch. That seemed to perk him up."

"He wants to see them off," the radioman said. "Don't blame him."

"Well, I believe that's a good possibility. I'm heading for the hangars." Wilson turned around. "They're showing a double feature. _For Me and My Gal._ That's a musical. And _Ride em Cowboy._ With Abbott and Costello."

Baker smiled. "That sounds great."

"You like musicals, Rich?" Olsen asked Baker.

"Better than war pictures," he replied.

"Who's seen war pictures?" Olsen quickened his pace. "I mean, I only saw a few before I got sent overseas."

"I did. Before I got shot down," Baker said. "Right now, I really don't want to be reminded."

"That's right. Forgot you came after us." Carter stated.

"You get used to him," Kinch teased, referring to his relief radioman. "And next time, don't sneak on a flight, like I did."

"Not going to be a next time." Baker couldn't help but think of the colored, liberated POW's spending time here in segregated areas, and probably not getting the same care as the rest of the RAMPs. He wondered if they were allowed in the gift shops and had movies to keep them occupied. He almost didn't want to know.

* * *

"Did you have a nice chat with your medic, Colonel?" the night nurse asked Hogan as she checked his vitals for what seemed to him the umpteenth time that day.

"I was… why do you ask me questions just before you plan on sticking that thing in my mouth?"

The nurse smiled sheepishly as she held back the thermometer. "Sorry. Go ahead."

"It was enlightening," Hogan stated.

"Wonderful. Here. Put this under your tongue. He's a good medic. Has a nice bedside manner." Hogan almost choked on that description. "I assume he was a great field medic; although you didn't know him then, did you?"

Hogan shook his head.

"You should be proud of Sergeant Wilson and his staff, sir. From what I can see, I really believe he saved some lives back at that camp of yours."

Hogan nodded.

"Do you need another blanket?"

Hogan shook his head.

The nurse removed the thermometer and smiled. "Look. It went down again. You're almost back to normal."

"Normal would be an exaggeration." Hogan winked at her.

Although he still felt somewhat out of sorts, his spirits had improved after his talk with Wilson. "Can you roll back the curtain," Hogan asked the nurse before she left. To accommodate patients from another liberated camp, the rest of the patients from 13 had been moved closer to his end of the ward. Hogan's men were doing well and were steadily being discharged. Those remaining were warned not to say anything about their unusual circumstances.

"How are the new guys doing?" he asked the nurse before she left.

"Lucky to be alive. The other nurses are taking care of them. This bunch... they're very malnourished. The sickest are in another ward. Those boys are going to be here for quite a while."

"If it's okay, I'd like to visit with them tomorrow," Hogan told her.

"We can see if that can be arranged," the nurse replied as she left to continue on her rounds.

"Colonel Hogan?" The man in the bed next to him piped up a short while later.

Hogan put down the copy of the _Stars and Stripes_ he was reading.

"What is it, Corporal?"

"Do you think we will make that troop ship?"

"I hope so. But it's up to the doctors. How's your breathing?" he asked him.

"Better, but it still hurts."

"I hear ya." Hogan shifted and rested his head on the pillow propping him up. He was just about to close his eyes when another soldier sidled up to the bed. The sergeant, a barracks chief, was admitted to the hospital when he arrived at the complex.

"What's up, MacCrindle?"

"We're down to eleven," he reported. "But you know that. Um," he lowered his voice. "The boys are a bit unnerved."

"Oh, by what?"

"The transport schedule and what they've seen." He pointed to the further end of the ward. "Their morale is a little down if you ask my opinion, sir." This wasn't the first time the chief dealt with morale issues. Fortunately, Hogan was available to talk to the rest of the men in the hospital. The previous month was full of uncertainty and fear.

* * *

_Luft Stalag 13_

_3/24/45_

MacCrindle, a native of Edinburgh, Scotland, had been the barracks chief of Barracks 20 for just over two years. On a cold, windy morning in March, he and several other chiefs crossed the compound after a hastily called meeting in the mess. He blew on his hands and opened the door to his hut.

"Hey, Sarge. What's up?" asked one of the residents.

"Hang on." MacCrindle shoved the door shut and removed his jacket. "Where's Green?"

"Sick call. He hasn't come back." Green's bunk mate hopped off the top bunk and checked the stove. The rest of the men either remained on the bunks or slumped in the few chairs facing the heat.

MacCrindle sighed. "The meeting. The news isn't too good." That got everyone's attention. "Colonel Hogan is really sick. He's been grounded."

"What do you mean grounded?" asked a corporal, who placed a mug of weak tea in the chief's hand.

"Thanks. Well, grounded is not the right word," MacCrindle answered. "He's been temporarily relieved of command."

Everyone began talking at once, and MacCrindle had to whistle loudly to make everyone stop so he could be heard. He threw his jacket on his bunk and then plopped down. "Kinchloe's in charge of the operation," he said as he took a sip of the tea. "McMahon has been appointed MOC. **"**

"I don't get it," said one of the newer prisoners, a tall Canadian flight engineer from Montreal. "Kinch is the colonel's..." Another man whispered in his ear. "Oh." The Canadian shook his head in disgust.

"Oh, God." One of the other newer prisoners, a gunner still in his teens, flipped over and faced the wall. "Oh, God."

"Hey." A British technical sergeant quickly went over. "Pull yourself together, mate. It'll be okay. We have a chain of command." He looked up at McMahon. "Did Kinch say anything about the advance?"

"No. He couldn't. We were in the mess and there were krauts there. He'll call a briefing in the tunnels if they get any news. Can one of you go over to the infirmary and see what happened to Green? Oh, and we have two airmen in the tunnels."

The men grunted in response.

"More mouths to feed," someone grumbled.

"Knock it off or I'll put you on report. We're all in this together." MacCrindle collapsed onto his back, and threw his arm over his face.

* * *

_Camp Lucky Strike_

Hogan took MacCrindle's concerns very seriously. Not only had the men seen what they fortunately avoided, they were beginning to speculate on other rumors and what else might have happened to both prisoners and civilians.

"I'll speak to everyone tomorrow. Go back to bed before the nurse yells at me."

"Thanks, Colonel. I didn't want to worry you, but…"

"You're just doing your job," Hogan interrupted. "I appreciate that."

The next morning, Colonel Hogan was permitted to speak to the other patients. He pulled up a chair, introduced himself, and then listened to a group of men who were held prisoner at a camp in Austria.

"They weren't really brutal, sir. I guess we were lucky. But we had no food," explained a young airman, a tech sergeant from St. Louis, who was shot down over Italy. "We usually got one bowl of soup a day."

"Rutabaga." Another airman grimaced. "Day after day. And some bread. Which was awful, but we ate it."

"How many men were in your camp?" Hogan asked.

"Over 4000, sir. We were housed in abandoned WW1 buildings. Only two small stoves. It was always cold. And we really never saw many Red Cross packages." The man was very pale and painfully thin. But, his tone of voice displayed his now upbeat demeanor. It was clear they were all thrilled, if not surprised, to be alive and in Allied hands.

Hogan was shocked when he heard about the camp evacuation and the forced march the malnourished and ill prisoners, as well as their captors, took in advance of the Russians. Fortunately, an American jeep swung by their new camp and quickly sent in reinforcements. He was aware of all the forced marches, but hearing about it first-hand was sobering. And these men were in fairly good condition despite their ordeal.

"And that's how we ended up here, sir," added a gunner from Chicago.

"What did you do with your time?" Hogan asked the gunner.

He smiled. "We played pranks. Made the guards go off count."

Hogan smiled back. "Sounds familiar."

"And we managed to build our own crystal radio. Hid one of the antennas in the clothesline," the man added. "They never found it."

Talking with these new patients made Hogan feel useful; although he was frightened for the rest of the Allied prisoners.

"So the troop ship heading across the Atlantic isn't leaving until the end of the month," Hogan explained later that morning to his men. "There's a good chance you'll make it. And believe me; I know how you all feel." The colonel was seated in the chair next to his bed. Five of the remaining eleven were standing around. The rest were propped up in beds and could hear the gist of the conversation. Hogan had asked the staff to temporarily cordon off their area with curtains so that they could have some privacy, and so as not to disturb the sicker men down at the other end of the ward.

"I know you've had a glimpse of the other men who were brought in. It's not uncommon to think in these circumstances of what could have been, if things had been different. It's easy to dwell on. Planes get hit. Guys next to you in foxholes get killed. We make the best out of a unique situation. Mainly because we're sitting here on our you know whats with nothing better to do than to think of the what ifs. It's also hard to see the effects of the brutality and inhumanity of what we were fighting, considering how lucky we really were. It makes you angry and scared, so think of the guys we saved that could have ended up in one of those places. Got it?"

The small crowd quietly acknowledged him and went back to their beds, while Hogan signaled the orderly and had him remove the curtains. He only hoped his talks had some effect.

"Lieutenant Gage." Hogan's face lit up as the nurse approached. "What a nice surprise."

"Good morning, sir. I guess you won't mind if I draw some blood."

Hogan reluctantly held out his left arm. "I thought I was scheduled for an x-ray this morning."

"The doctor wants to push it back a bit. More chances for your lungs to clear, and then we can release you. Better that, than too much exposure."

"Oh." Hogan was disappointed.

"You look tired." The nurse marked the vial and put it on her cart. "Bad night?"

"Not the best." Hogan admitted. "I'm beginning to miss my flat, thin excuse for a mattress at camp."

"Cough for me. I will speak to him, but he most likely won't order anything to help you sleep. It will suppress your respiratory system."

Hogan let out a breath. "I'm used to managing without sleep," he told her.

MacCrindle waited for the nurse to leave before asking Hogan if he was interested in playing a game of chess. Thinking back to a recent match with one of his core team, he smiled and agreed.

* * *

_Luft Stalag 13_

_April 16, 1945_

Hogan stifled a yawn and gazed at the chessboard. "Tired sir? I can leave." Newkirk began to get up.

"No." Hogan held out his hand. "I'm a few moves from wiping you out." Newkirk stared at the board. He looked up, then down. Hogan grinned. "You don't see it, do you?"

"Never really been me game." Newkirk made a move and threw up his hands. "Go ahead. My talents lie elsewhere."

Hogan moved his queen. "Checkmate." Hogan folded his arms. "That was satisfying." A knock at the door interrupted his victory.

"Colonel. You need to see this." Kinch handed Hogan a sheet of paper.

He read the report and looked up. "They've advanced past Dusseldorf."

Newkirk, as well as the crowd gathered around the door, were speechless.

"I think I better get back to the radio," Kinch said a few moments later.

Hogan smiled. "Keep me posted. I'm going back to bed." For the rest of his life, Hogan would continue to be fond of chess.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cigarette camps and the troopships were segregated.
> 
> A/N The history given by the other men in this chapter is partially taken from the memoirs of Frederick E. Ehmann, 1914-2013. His obituary, which I saved from the Philadelphia Inquirer (9/11/2013), included details of his life before, during and after the war. He was shot down over Italy in '43 and spent his captivity in Stalag 17B, in Krems, Austria. I've changed the dates a bit so this similar unit could be at Lucky Strike the same time as the men from Luft Stalag 13. The men from his camp did go on a march, but the obit didn't say where the troops were sent after they were rescued by American units. It appears this rescue took place on 5/2/45.
> 
> TROOPSHIPS: ww2troopships crossings / 1945 . htm I was all over the internet looking for records (for this project and to see if I could locate info on my dad's ships) I tried to get this to work with the story. According to this site, a ship named The Argentina left LeHavre on 4/22. The site says most of the passengers were RAMPS. The next ship to arrive would have been the General M. C. Meigs. It left England on the 27th, and arrived in LeHavre on the 28th. It left LeHavre on the 30th and landed in Southhampton on May 3rd. The site did not show the ship complement. FYI: there is a lot of information out there-both in print and online. Gov docs from the United States and the United Kingdom. Fascinating. Fortunately, more info is uploaded to the world wide web all the time. There is so much more available now (then in 2008 when I first began writing, and then researching and reading about POWs).


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: This is the second to last chapter. I broke up my original final chapter into two parts. Several people, including Abracadebra and ColHogan, offered feedback on this part of the story and put in a lot of effort to make suggestions, edits, etc. I appreciated all their time and effort. I also want to thank my sister for her opinions and for always reminding me to have confidence in my writing. It's taken me a long time to polish this, and I may work on more edits after the final chapter is posted. (still working on that one)._

_RAMPS_

_Chapter 12_

_Camp Lucky Strike_

_April 25, 1945_

Kinch arrived in Hogan's cubicle with his usual clipboard and pen and found the Colonel in bed, drumming his fingers on his tray table. Hogan looked up and grinned, happy to have some company.

"I need this sent to London." Hogan handed Kinch a large sealed envelope.

"Will do, Colonel. Anything else?" He gestured toward a stack of letters on Hogan's nightstand. "What about those?" Hogan handed him the mail.

"Got it, sir. Is that it?"

"I'm dying of boredom."

"Can't do anything about that, Colonel. Can you sign this?" Kinch handed Hogan the clipboard and a pen.

Hogan signed and handed the clipboard back to Kinch. The sergeant flipped the paper over. "Next page," he said. "Initial here."

Kinch gave a small smile as Hogan affixed his initials. "Aren't you going to read these?" he asked.

"I think you'd tell me if that was necessary," Hogan replied.

Kinch shrugged. "I would. You're granting permission for the men to go to the PX in small groups and taking full responsibility."

Hogan glanced at the sheet. "So if they talk, I'm the one they'll shoot."

"That's the gist of it, Sir. They're all sitting on back pay. I guess they're ready to load up on Life Savers and Juicy Fruit gum."

"A taste of home. Let them go to town." Hogan handed back the clipboard.

"Do you want us to pick something up for you, Colonel?" Kinch asked.

"I could use more aftershave," Hogan told him. He then folded his arms and let out a chuckle.

"What's so funny, sir?" Kinch asked.

"I ran out of aftershave in March. But, remember all that stuff we collected? We had enough to set up a stall in a London market."

Kinch smiled. "Newkirk did say that, sir. And we put it to good use." He paused for a moment. "I think you gave one of your last bottles of aftershave to Schultz."

"I honestly don't remember," Hogan replied. Since he had come down sick, he often felt like his brain was caught up in a dense London fog. Although he felt fine now, his memories were faulty and he knew his decision-making skills back at camp were not as reliable as they should have been. "Kinch."

"Yes, sir."

"Thanks for taking charge of the operation back at camp. One wrong move and we could have had a disaster on our hands."

While second-guessing was not Hogan's style, Kinch could sense the guilt in the colonel's tone. The sergeant realized he could not leave Hogan mulling over the decisions made the last months before liberation. Of course, removing the colonel's command was not their call. That fell to Wilson; but they all, Hogan included, agreed it was necessary. Fortunately, it was temporary, and Kinch repeated what he and others had told their C.O. back at camp. "You knew what needed to be done and when. And it was a team effort."

Hogan knew Kinch was correct. Perhaps he just needed confirmation. Were Kinch's eyes beginning to tear up?

"It was," Hogan stated, knowing that too much conversation can sometimes be counter-productive. "Well, we may have looked like a fly by the seat of our pants operation, but you and the others...well, it was the right set of circumstances at the right time...with the right people."

Kinch smiled. "Yes, sir. Permission to take care of this paperwork?"

"Dismissed."

As Hogan watched Kinch leave, he thought about his men's rediscovered formality. He appreciated and understood this change. While he started out with a strict command structure in camp, the dangerous and fluid conditions contributed to less saluting and more familiarity. It was a natural response to their unusual circumstances and constant stress.

All the prisoners wondered what would happen after liberation. However, when the day finally arrived, and they realized their new reality was not what they expected, Hogan noticed that many of them fell back into the habits ingrained in them during training and their service. The colonel was not surprised that even his top operatives, those closest to him, slipped back into a more formal demeanor, much as Carter had acted when he received a Dear John letter and asked to go home. (1)

He sat back on his pillows and waited, not for the next shoe to drop, but for the next activity on his schedule. To his relief, he watched as the end of the hospital ward housing the men from Luft Stalag 13 emptied. Eventually, only five from Hogan's command remained. More of the patients went outside for fresh air, a small change that actually brought huge comfort to those who had been suffering from cabin fever. Clad in their army bathrobes, the men soaked up the sun.

"I can't tell you how good this feels," Hogan said to Carter as they lounged on a bench right outside the hospital. "The sun and the company."

"I can imagine you've been pretty restless. Like at camp." Carter smiled and leaned his head back in order to catch some rays.

"At camp I was too sick to care—at first anyway. What have you been up to? I haven't seen much of you lately," Hogan asked the tech sergeant. He was happy to see Carter relax.

"What have I been up to? Oh, boy…I mean, sir." Carter paused for a moment to rub his eyes. "I think I may need glasses," he said. "You see, when you start working closely, like I did in camp with all those little bits and pieces, wires, parts, test tubes, well, we never had our eyes checked. And now…" Carter's mouth came to a dead stop. "You want me to get to the point," he stated.

"That would be nice," Hogan replied. "I'm not getting any younger." Hogan saw Carter's crestfallen face. "That was a joke." Hogan smiled. (2)

"Oh." Carter smiled back. "I'm glad to see you still have your sense of humor, sir. Now where was I?"

"Your eyes. And what you've been up to?"

"Oh, sure." Carter scratched his forehead and then turned to face Hogan. "Baker and I have been working on the roster. We had to compare records. I mean we had to compare the intelligence records with the camp records. That's why I definitely think I need to have my eyes checked. Small print. Bad handwriting."

"I see. You have to make sure everyone's been accounted for?" Hogan asked.

"You bet!" Carter replied. "Well, the intelligence records were right and they matched ours. Newkirk even had a pool going."

"A pool?" Hogan asked as he tried hard not to laugh.

"You know, sir. A betting pool. How much off they were?"

"How much off they were by whom?" Hogan was now a bit confused. This was not an unusual circumstance. Carter often did that to people.

"The army, sir." It was now Carter's turn to show a bit of confusion. He couldn't figure out what Hogan didn't get, although he was too polite to say so. "We had to correct their records, too."

"Oh. And…"

"They were off by 17 men," Carter explained. "Don't worry, Colonel," he said as he saw Hogan's facial expression turn serious. "London will handle any discrepancies."

"Good." _Considering how many men of different nationalities made it through the camp, that's not as bad as I thought._ "Even if the army didn't have the correct information, I know all of our men's families were notified of their capture and where they were taken. There's a huge bureaucracy out there just handling POW affairs for all of the countries. So, who won?" (3)

"Won what?" Carter asked.

"The betting pool, Carter!"

"Oh, right!" Carter laughed. "Kinch did of course. He knows our records better than anyone."

Hogan wasn't insulted; because what Carter said was true. Kinch seemed to have this information stored in his brain. Whether they were looking for an expert on metallurgy, a recipe for matzo balls, or the composition of German soil, his second knew whom to call upon. (4)

"Of course he did," Hogan replied. He spotted the patients heading back into the building. "I have to get back inside," he told Carter. "I have an appointment with the doctor in a few minutes."

"Okay, sir. I'll get back to the records." Carter got up and headed back towards the staff tent, while Hogan opened the door and entered the hospital.

As Hogan walked back to his bed, he saw that Major Maddox was already there. The doctor was scribbling notes on his chart. "Good news?" Hogan asked.

"Yes," the doctor replied. "Your X-rays are fine. We're kicking you out of here tomorrow morning, barring any last-minute changes in your condition. Frankly, we will all be glad to see you go." There was a slight grin on the doctor's face.

"Hallelujah. Can I let my staff know?" Hogan asked.

"Sure," Maddox replied. "I'll send someone over." He walked away and spoke to an orderly, who nodded and then left the building.

"You know, I was beginning to think I'd never make it out of here," Hogan confided to a nurse a few moments later.

The nurse smiled. "I had faith in you, Colonel."

That evening, Hogan spent some time chatting with the few men in his unit left in the hospital, and then walked to the other end of ward to visit with the other liberated prisoners.

* * *

_Camp Lucky Strike_

_April 26, 1945_

Hogan was buttoning his shirt and tucking it into his pants, when he spotted his medic strolling towards him. "Hey, Joe," he said cheerfully.

"Morning sir. I'm your ride," Wilson quipped. "We've got a tent where you can get settled, and then after lunch, you can speak to all the men in the hangars. Oh, I brought you something. Picked this up for you at the PX." Wilson handed Hogan a bottle of aftershave.

"Thanks." Hogan put it in a duffel bag and then fastened his notch on his belt. "Hey, look at that. I gained back some pounds. One notch looser since I came in. So how do I look?"

Wilson smiled. "Like yourself, sir. Once you get settled, London wants you on a call when you're ready. And the people they want to see—you're all going out on a flight tomorrow morning. London said I can wait for the troop ship."

Hogan agreed with Wilson's plans. He took one last stroll through the ward, spoke briefly to the remaining patients, and thanked the medical staff. He and the medic got in the jeep and drove off. The colonel leaned back in the vehicle and took in the details of the enormous facility, finally seeing what some of what he had missed when he was unceremoniously admitted into the medical unit upon his arrival. He'd never seen so many tents. He heard someone at the hospital say the camp had a capacity of 70,000. The contrast between this bustling city and the last days in his former prison was striking.

* * *

_Luft Stalag 13_

_April 21, 1945_

Hogan stood alone in the center of the compound, with only a few empty half tracks and jeeps for company. The remnants of the battalion that had liberated the camp were in the mess hall having a quick meal before heading out to meet their unit, which had continued further into Germany. A small convoy, an ambulance which would carry Hogan and his men and several trucks holding personal items and paperwork, were parked outside the front gates. He turned around. The camp was eerily silent. Spooky, thought Hogan. Like a ghost town. The colonel took a deep breath, which was the wrong move, as it led to a fit of coughing. "Damn," he said out loud.

"You all right, sir?" Kinch had quietly sneaked up behind him. "You need to get that checked out."

"It's too quiet," Hogan said. "Seems so odd, so lifeless."

"That it does," Kinch agreed.

Hogan began to walk towards the barracks. "You all ready? I want to check out the tunnels."

"Everything is set, Colonel, but are you sure that's wise? Heading down there? Wilson said…"

The look on Hogan's face stopped Kinch in his tracks. He wisely kept his mouth shut as they approached the hut where LeBeau, Newkirk, and Carter were waiting; medical advice or not, Hogan was going to want to see this.

Hogan smiled as he reached out and pulled a Verboten sign off a bulletin board and threw it in the trash. He paused for a moment, thinking of the brave men and women who didn't make it. The courier who brought in the briefcase. Members of the Underground who gave their lives to help others. The innocent civilians...he coughed. As he entered the hut, he said quietly, "Every man who landed here as a POW made it out alive."

"Something to tell your family, sir. They'd be proud," Newkirk emphasized.

"I couldn't have done it without your help," Hogan replied. "And everyone else's as well."

"Even Klink," Carter noted. "He wasn't that bad, was he?"

"You're right, Carter. Even Klink."

"Any word on how the Kommandant is doing?" Carter asked. "And the rest of his staff?" Once the camp was handed over to the Americans, Klink and the rest of their overseers were processed as quickly as possible and taken away.

"Haven't heard anything recently," Hogan replied. "Just know they're nicely settled somewhere in England and separated from other prisoners. I'm sure Schultz knows the reason why."

"And Klink is in denial." Kinch laughed. "If he even suspects." He paused for a moment as he became lost in thought. "From what I hear, they'll be a lot more comfortable than many of the other captured Germans."

"Or other Allied prisoners," LeBeau added, referring to some of the reports received about the poor condition of other liberated POWs.

"Our freed men will be taken care of, LeBeau," Hogan said. "There are hospitals set up in all the evacuation centers." The colonel then flopped down in a chair.

Four pairs of eyes stared at him for a moment.

"What?" Hogan stared back as he tried to catch his breath.

There was a chorus of mumbling and a lot of shifting feet.

_There was nothing wrong with Hogan's hearing._

"He's going to end up in one of those hospitals," he heard Kinch whisper to Newkirk before they left the hut.

The colonel didn't answer his second. Instead he shelved the radioman's concerns away and concentrated on the next step of their evacuation. He was still in command of his remaining troops and he intended on doing his job and being there for his core team; and once he arrived at the Lucky Strike camp, the rest of liberated prisoners as well.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Request Permission to Escape-After receiving a "Dear John" letter from his girlfriend, Carter entered Hogan's office and asked for permission to escape. Hogan actually asked the tech sergeant if he had to be so military. Carter's answer? "I always get this way when I'm serious, sir."
> 
> 2) Hogan Throws a Birthday Party-in this episode, General Biedenbender, the man ultimately responsible for shooting down Hogan's plane, asked Carter why he looked so crest-fallen.
> 
> 3) Cross-checking records of liberated POWs with records from the Red Cross (of captured POWs) was a huge undertaking for all of the countries involved. This was too much to go into here. Lucky families got good news when their sons (whom they thought were MIA) were found to be prisoners. Other families who thought their sons were going to be okay, were sadly notified of errors or that their sons had died in captivity. Others never knew what happened to their loved ones. (Russians and other Eastern Europeans captured by Germans, and the opposite, and so forth.)
> 
> 4) The Pizza Parlor-in this episode, after Kinch was tasked to find someone who could come up with a pizza recipe for Major Bonacelli, Kinch actually told Hogan that he had found someone who could make matzo balls.


	13. Chapter 13

_RAMPS_

_Chapter 13_

_Camp Lucky Strike_

_Luft Stalag 13 staff housing area_

Hogan's men immediately surrounded him when he arrived at his tent. They all wore huge grins and began talking at once.

"Hang on. One at a time," Hogan said.

"Would you like a tour of the camp, sir?" Carter asked eagerly.

"There's a USO tent," Newkirk added.

"I managed to see a bit on the way over here. But, no thanks," Hogan replied. "The doctor said I should take it easy. Plus, I need to make a call to London."

"Aside from the call, there's nothing you need to do," Kinch said, as he and the rest of the core team accompanied Hogan inside.

"What time are we leaving tomorrow for London?" Hogan sat down on his cot and removed his shoes. "LeBeau, there's no need to hover."

"Sorry, mon colonel." LeBeau's face betrayed his relief. He was so worried about Hogan's health—both back at the camp and their first few days at Lucky Strike—and now he finally felt like all the tension had melted away. "0800."

"And the men coming with us?" Hogan asked.

"Oh, they all know the schedule," Newkirk assured him. "Probably already queuing up." Some department heads —the men behind the scenes who made sure the tunnels didn't collapse, the printing presses were operating, the metal shop kept grinding along and the rank and file stayed engaged—were accompanying Hogan and his operatives. Most of the barracks chiefs were also going, while some were told to remain behind to stay with the large group of soldiers waiting for the troopship to take them first to England, and then home.

"That's a good bet." Hogan laughed.

Kinch looked at his watch. "Do you want us to bring you back some lunch, colonel? The lines can be pretty long."

Hogan thought for a moment, admitted that he still felt a bit tired and agreed to take a break. After his team left, he began to check out the tent. It was spartan, but comfortable; however, he wished he could bunk with his men. Once he got to England, he realized the accommodations would also be separate, and he wondered how hard it would be to acclimate to the peace and quiet and the privacy. After years away, many of the former prisoners would find themselves like fish out of water. It would not be an easy transition. He sat down on the cot and then lay down, linked his hands behind his head and let out a weary sigh. After a brief rest, he got up, opened the tent flap and asked a passing MP where he could make a secure call. The MP escorted Hogan to a communications tent, where he waited for a secure connection, and briefly spoke to Colonel Wembley about plans for their arrival the next morning.

" _There's one other thing you need to hear,"_ Wembley said.

"Go ahead." After listening to Wembley's final message, the colonel smiled as he heard the British colonel's words. "I'll let everyone know this afternoon," he told Wembley. "I'm speaking to the entire group over at the hangars." Relieved there was nothing further to discuss, Hogan returned to his tent.

When the men came back a couple hours later with some food, they found the colonel propped up comfortably on the cot. For weeks, Hogan had been pale, run down and even hunched over by illness; now he looked rested and relaxed, as he sat up comfortably with his ankles crossed. He hadn't looked this good—hadn't looked this much like himself—in months.

"Not haute cuisine, Colonel, but it will have to do," LeBeau sniffed.

"Put it on the table." Hogan rose and gazed at the plate. He shrugged, sat down, picked up a fork, and began to eat. "Not that bad," he said in between mouthfuls. "Not as good as your food, LeBeau," he quickly added. "What you could do with spam…"

LeBeau smiled and then began to laugh. It was contagious, and one by one, the rest of the group joined in. For the second time since the tanks rolled in, the men let it all out. They had a release of tension back at the camp, not long before they left the area and the wired tunnel system collapsed in an explosion. This time, for an indescribable reason, Hogan's compliment set them off. (1)

As the group wiped the tears from their eyes, LeBeau tried to forget what he was forced to work with back at camp. "I promise you what I did with spam will be nothing compared to what I will feed all of you once I open up my restaurant in Paris."

A contented Hogan happily stood back, his arms crossed around himself, as he listened to his men joke and talk with one another about post-war plans.

An hour later, he and his staff piled into two jeeps and drove over to where the rank and file were being housed. Olsen, who seemed to know the complex like the back of his hand, was at the wheel of the colonel's jeep. The trip reminded Hogan of a slow-moving amusement park ride—bumper cars, he thought, except they were avoiding uneven spots in the road, which was not in the greatest shape. The occupants began coughing as the jeep churned up dust, forcing Olsen to ride the brakes as he squinted to see through the cloud enveloping the vehicle.

"Olsen. Is there another way? There's too much dust," LeBeau complained. He looked over at Hogan, who seemed to be taking this all in stride. Fortunately, he was not showing any signs of breathing issues.

"No problem." Olsen then turned down what the people in the camp called a street. The other jeep, which held the rest of the staff, followed. "They don't call me The Outside Man for nothing," he quipped. "I know another way."

This route, while off the beaten path, had less dirt and potholes, and Hogan's jeep made better time. They pulled up next to another area, where the entire population of Luft Stalag 13 crammed themselves into one of the larger hangars, now devoid of all the cots where previously, 300 had slept. A platform and standing microphone had been set up at one end. The men were antsy and the anticipation was running high as they awaited the arrival of their commanding officer and his senior staff. The chit-chat and shuffling immediately stopped and close to 900 men came to attention as the small group entered the building and Hogan stepped onto the platform.

"At ease," he said into the microphone.

The near silence turned to a wave of voices. Loud murmurings and then enthusiastic cheers rose up.

Hogan held up his hand and immediately the crowd quieted down. "This speech is a little bit late," he began.

"That's okay, Colonel!" a corporal near the front yelled. The men broke out in applause.

Hogan smiled. "Take a seat."

The men settled down on the floor and immediately gave their C.O. their complete attention.

"By now you've been through interrogations, debriefing by military intelligence, poked and prodded by doctors, and fed eggnog, served to you by German POWs, who are finding out what it's like to be the captives. Germany's surrender is near, and the Allies are very close to securing the freedoms that we have all been fighting so hard to protect. I can't discuss everything in detail right now."

There were nods, smiles and some muttering. Hogan gave the men time to react to his statement, and when the group quieted down, he continued.

"Some of you will say it was fate that brought you to Luft Stalag 13, and some of you will say it was luck that you all ended up there. When you were shot down, captured and brought to 13, I offered a chance to continue to fight—to be part of something extraordinary. And you are all part of the vast majority of the men who volunteered to stay.

"And here you are—873 of you safe and going home."

The hangar erupted in applause and cheers. The din was so loud that the men on the platform could feel the vibrations of the floor underneath their feet

The rank and file needed this outlet, Hogan thought as he waited for the men to quiet down.

"General Butler spoke to all of you, and you're aware the intelligence staff went back to London. What they didn't tell you was that you've all been promoted a grade, retroactive to the time you came to camp." The colonel was treated to stunned silence. It was not the reaction he expected.

Hogan's main core team was standing on the back of the temporary platform. Newkirk turned to Carter and poked him in the ribs. "Blimey, that means some of those blokes out there are now officers?"

"Wow." Carter was stunned. None of the crew did what they did for a raise in pay grade or medals. Sure, they often joked about it, and often griped—sometimes good-naturedly and sometimes seriously. But they all volunteered to stay and to use their expertise to help shorten the war and save lives. "I think so, Newkirk," the tech sergeant managed to croak out. "You think that goes for the Colonel as well? That means he should be a general by now."

Olsen heard Carter's comment. "I don't think he's thinking about that. But I guess so," he murmured.

Hogan continued. "Instead of sitting out the war in a prison camp, you all agreed to risk your lives. You all showed extraordinary courage every day against tremendous odds. You all helped to fulfill our mission. Take pride in what you've accomplished. I'm proud of each and every one of you." He swallowed the lump forming in his throat.

"I'm heading back to London tomorrow morning with my core team and staff, some barracks chiefs and department heads. A troopship is on its way, and I'll see some of you in London before you head off to your homes. To those of you staying behind in France, I know the future appears uncertain. You will all play a vital role in rebuilding the continent, just as you played a vital role in our mission."

After a deep breath, he continued. "You may recall that when you arrived at the camp—and Kommandant Klink liked to repeat himself—he said, 'For you the war is over.' Well, for you _this part of the war is over._ And it is my duty to remind you that you all signed agreements not to reveal what went on at Luft Stalag 13. I know it will be hard. This information may come out next week, next month, next year, or maybe never. It's not for me to decide. But even if people do not find out in our lifetime what we accomplished there, _you'll know what you did."_

As he stepped back from the microphone, close to 900 men sprung to their feet. There was thunderous applause, foot-stomping, and some whistling. The rank and file then came to attention and saluted their C.O. Hogan was already keeping his emotions in check, but knowing that this was his final speech to all of these men, he now felt overwhelmed. He blinked back the tears forming in his eyes as he returned their salute before stepping down from the platform and leaving the building.

The ride back to their billets was silent; everyone was lost in their own thoughts. The core team followed their C.O. into his tent and watched as a silent Hogan removed his crush cap, which he put on the small desk, and his bomber jacket, which he draped over the chair.

LeBeau, Carter, Kinch, and Newkirk stood in the center of the room, while Olsen and Baker hung back near the threshold. The operation's Outside Man, who, if anyone was counting, actually spent more time in town than in camp, and Baker, Kinch's main relief man on the radio, looked at one another and nodded. Baker cleared his throat. "With your permission, sir, Olsen and I have some last-minute packing to do."

"Go ahead," Hogan replied. He waited until they were gone, and then turned towards his men. He leaned back against the desk, crossed his ankles and wrapped his arms around himself. He noticed that the four men-his top operatives-were awkwardly starting at the ground. "Well," he said. They looked up.

As he paused, as if he was trying to come up with the right words.

"Yes, sir?" Kinch asked.

Hogan stood erect and stepped forward. "I was going to say a lot more in that speech. About how the Germans haven't surrendered, the civilians behind the lines, the victims, all those we saved, the defectors, the Jewish families, and the horror of what they've discovered." He ran his hand through his hair. "But, what came out, came out."

"They all know," Kinch stated quietly.

"Your speech was perfect, sir." Carter's voice shook a bit as he shuffled a bit. From nerves, he supposed.

The others nodded in agreement.

"I know we had a few of these conversations back at camp-especially right before we left."

"It's all right, guv. You don't have to say anything." Newkirk said, as he choked back tears.

"No. Tomorrow morning will be chaotic. And then after we land; I don't know exactly what will happen, but I know we will be busy for a while. So, I just wanted to say that I couldn't have pulled any of this off without all of you. I just want to make sure you all know that. When I asked, you gave me feedback. When I ordered, you obeyed. When you screwed up...well, you made amends. And even I screwed up one in a while. When I offered a way out-you stayed. Everything fell into place. An officer doesn't see that all too often."

"You did the same," LeBeau reminded him. "Stay, I meant to say."

"We were at the right place at the right time, Colonel," Kinch said.

"That you were, Kinch. That you were. I know you have things to do to get prepared for tomorrow. Oh, and check with the others coming with us. Make sure that they're all ready to go."

They enthusiastically agreed to their new orders, as if this moment was so uncomfortable that leaving to do busy work was the best possible thing they could do.

As they left the tent, Hogan stood and watched the four men who were so vital to the operation. A language and communications expert. A performance artist and reformed thief. A master chef. An ordinance expert with a flair for acting. All fluent speakers of German. What were the odds? And all as close as four men from such different backgrounds thrown together could be. Kinch, his arm draped around Carter, led the group. Newkirk was with LeBeau. The two, who became inseparable when they arrived at camp just days apart, shared what was perhaps a private moment. He was sure that if it weren't for them, his surrogate family, he would not be standing where he was right now.

The next morning, Hogan, his staff, most of the barracks chiefs, and a raucous bunch of soldiers all met at the airfield and waited to board transports that would take them to England, where most of the men would be discharged, while a few would stay on for a lengthy debriefing. After that, they would begin a new life. For it could not be a continuation of the old. Not for anyone involved in this war. For no matter what you went through as a soldier, whether you fought in the foxholes, or on a ship, or behind the scenes as a spy, from this day forward, they would be forever changed.

_The end_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) See my last chapter of "Out the Front Gates."
> 
> Thank you to all of the readers and reviewers. And for all those who helped proofread, edit, and offered suggestions which helped improve this story.
> 
> While I tried to incorporate as much research as I could, I left many things out. I will be uploading a new topic in the XIII forum titled Liberation Bibliography and notes. I'll include citations, notes etc there. Please feel free to use any of the information in your works. Or add anything to the topic in your posts.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Sir Colin Gubbins was the head of the SOE until 1946
> 
> 2) www . archives . gov / research / guide - fed - records / groups / 331 .html
> 
> 3) From a memoir: "We were put in tents and segregated by states to come back to the good old U.S.A. I did not have any addresses of my friends because we were from different states. We were offered leave time in London or Paris, but my choice was getting back to the U.S.A. as fast as I could. The area around LeHavre, France, port facilities were in total destruction. There was nothing standing in an area of two square miles of my estimation. There were gun barrels the size of sewer pipe twisted and bent. The pill boxes were steel reinforced concrete, about 30 inches thick on all sides with a window in front for the gun barrel to stick out. There were gun barrels lying around that were about 16 inches in diameter."
> 
> / page / 94111957 - my - observations - as - a - wwii - pow - by - richard - klema
> 
> A/N: This story is a culmination of over 10 years of research. Originally written by hand in the winter of 2010, it's been sitting in my computer and on paper ever since. I decided to finally try and get it posted-for several reasons-I have time right now, I wanted to honor the 75th anniversary of V.E. Day, and I was so bogged down in the research, I couldn't get it moving. So, I've decided to incorporate what I can and not have it be too overwhelming; my purpose is to write the sequel to "Out the Front Gates" and to highlight what happened to the men in the ETO (Western Allies) who were liberated. This was a whole new set of problems never faced by any military or civilian organization. (seems apropos, considering what we're dealing with at the moment). My final goal is to tell a good story, not publish a term paper. So with that in mind, (and to follow site rules) I will post citations and a bibliography in the forums after the story is finished and I can get all my notes together. I'll try and incorporate historical facts into the narrative when I can. The other thing to note is that the experiences of all liberated POWs differ. And so do their memoirs. There is no one definitive set of circumstances; no definitive description of the Lucky Strike camps. Too many years have passed. I'm trying to use as many primary sources as possible. Thanks for reading!


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